The Selwyn Secret
by kirsant
Summary: Forced to live with the Malfoys, Hermione's life turns in an unexpected direction... Where Hermione is a pureblood, Harry learns to hate muggles, and according to Lord Voldemort, everything is going exactly to plan.
1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

 **End of Second Year**

* * *

 **Chapter One: King's Cross**

She stood in the crowd, a thin girl with a mane of bushy hair, next to a strange piece of luggage nearly half her size. People walked by, casting curious glances, but no one paused to ask what such a young girl was doing all by herself at London's King's Cross Station when the clock was about to strike seven.

The muggles didn't know this, but the Hogwarts Express had arrived three hours ago, depositing its horde of eager students excited for summer break. They were all gone now, whisked away by parents via floo, apparition, or even just conventional muggle means.

The railway station came to rest, once again, under muggle dominion. Neither witch nor wizard strolled through the grand halls; that is...except one.

Hermione Granger stood alone, nervously biting her lower lip and clenching the handle of her trunk so hard that her fingers had turned white. Her parents were supposed to have picked her up three hours ago. Needless to say, they hadn't.

At first, she hadn't been worried. She'd waved goodbye to Ron and the rest of the Weasleys – shaking hands with their father, Arthur, and bravely insisting to their mother Molly that, no, she was perfectly fine by herself, her parents were just probably running a little late because they worked very hard and traffic must have been bad. Then she watched Harry being led away by his uncle – a burly, red-faced, and angry man in his mid-40's. Harry, straining under the weight of all his things – his trunk, broom and Hedwig's cage among them – trotted after him, looking miserable. He had declined Hermione's offer of assistance; instead, he just asked that she write him over the summer.

Hermione promised she would and then waved again when she saw him peering out of the back window of a passing station wagon. He raised his hand and smiled sadly, but then another car rode in-between them, blocking her view, and she couldn't find him again. So she sat on a bench and started to wait.

An hour later, she was officially worried. Her parents were punctual and serious individuals – they worked as dentists – and they would have informed her of any scheduling conflicts. So she walked over to one of the big red phone booths and paid for a call using the few spare coins in her purse.

That was when the first shock of the evening came.

An automated reply promptly informed her that the number she had dialed did not exist, and she should try her call again. Hermione frowned. After retrieving her coins, she inserted them once more into the machine, and double-checked her movements, making sure to press the numbers in the right order. Despite her efforts, the melodic female voice returned with the exact same message.

Hermione took several steady breaths to calm herself. Maybe, she thought, their home phone was broken, or there was a problem on the line. That would explain her inability to connect. And as for her parents...there'd probably been an accident on the freeway, and they were stuck in traffic, worried just as much as she was. All she had to do was be patient and wait.

So she returned to the bench where she'd left her trunk and sat down again, fidgeting nervously. Her mind chose this inopportune moment to kick into overdrive.

Her last contact with her parents had been during winter break. Even then, she remembered now, they had seemed distant and confused. At times, they would stare at her like they couldn't quite figure out who she was or what she was doing there. Hermione hadn't payed their behavior much attention, though – all of her thoughts were focused on discovering the Heir's identity.

Now she was kicking herself.

Five months...and she hadn't heard a single word from her parents. True, she'd been in a petrified state for most of the time, but...hadn't Dumbledore notified them? Shouldn't they have visited her in the hospital ward? And why hadn't they replied to the letter she sent after Professor Sprout's mandrakes revived her?

The clock chimed six, a steady clang that pounded into her eardrums and nourished a growing feeling of dread in her chest. The most reasonable explanations seemed feeble now. There was just too much wrong, and all at the same time. Her parents' absence, combined with the broken phone line and the lack of correspondence bode nothing good.

Hermione took another breath and opened a book, but the words within offered no comfort.

Six thirty.

She shut the book, wiping off a few beads of icy sweat from her forehead. All of the Hogwarts students were gone now, and the portal to platform 9¾ was certainly closed. She was surrounded by people, but all of them were strangers. Hermione rose from her seat and paced uncertainly, gulping down a nauseous sense of worry. She glanced at the clock – six forty-five.

Hermione knew she didn't have the money for a cab, as her several attempts at calling her parents had used up the last of her muggle change. Her purse held only a handful of sickles and a single galleon, but the gold and silver was useless here.

By now, she'd cursed her decision to let the Weasleys go. They could have helped her, but she just _had_ to flaunt her independence. Unlike Harry, she didn't even have an owl to contant anyone; no, instead, she was the proud owner of a small mountain of books, and a fat lot of help they were.

Hermione sniffled, blinking rapidly. She still hoped for a rational explanation – an accident, a delay, something. Anything.

At six fifty, she decided it was time to approach the police. Glancing around, she noticed the distinct constabulary helmet-and-badge bobbing through the crowd in the distance. She leaned down to lift her trunk and then heard a name that made her freeze in place.

"Draco," an exasperated female voice was saying in a rapidly approaching conversation, "I cannot believe you. Whatever possessed you to go to this muggle area? And to leave your broom behind – your father would be furious."

"We were just playing," came a sullen response belonging to none other than Draco Malfoy, bully extraordinaire. "But then Crabbe tripped, breaking some muggle sign–"

"How that boy ended up in Slytherin..."

"–and we hauled back, but I forgot I'd left my broom–"

"A Nimbus 2001. Most children dream of such a broom, and you just...up and abandon it near hundreds of muggles! You know, sometimes I fear we spoil you too much; if I'd ever done such a thing, my mother would have–Oh."

The pair – Draco Malfoy and an older woman that could only be his mum – came to abrupt halt in front of Hermione, who had straightened and was, once again, nervously nibbling on her lip. The last thing she needed was for Malfoy to start ridiculing her. She tilted her head up and saw a pair of pale-blue eyes staring at her curiously.

 **. . . .**

"A Hogwarts student?" Narcissa asked with surprise, carefully inspecting the girl in front of her. She was dressed like a muggle, but the Hogwarts trunk blatantly proclaimed her status as a witch – either half-blood or muggleborn, as Narcissa knew all the pureblood girls her son's age. The girl's eyes were a little red 'round the edges and darted with panic. However, despite her obvious distress, the girl stood straight and even jutted out her chin a little, as if she was preparing for a fight.

"That's Granger," Narcissa heard her son sneer. "The Gryffindor know-it-all."

"The one that trumps you in every class?" Draco had certainly whinged about her enough; so much so that Lucius had forbidden the girl's name from any dinner conversation, because he was loath to have good food sullied by the mention of mudbloods. Narcissa cocked an eyebrow, giving the girl another once-over before expelling any thoughts of her whatsoever.

She wouldn't waste time on dirty blood; besides, it was already bad enough that Draco's forgetfulness that forced her to suffer such proximity to filthy muggle hordes.

"Come, Draco," she gestured to her son, watching the girl's eyes dim a little as if she'd been hoping for something. Assistance, perhaps. Narcissa scoffed at the foolish notion and turned to leave.

...Only to find that she couldn't.

It was the oddest feeling, like an invisible net or a magical current that tugged her back, and, instead of departing with haste, she found herself suddenly addressing the girl.

"You, why are you still here? Haven't your parents come to retrieve you?"

It was difficult to say who was more shocked of the three: Narcissa, Draco or Hermione. But her eyes lit up again and she squeaked, voice quivering: "They're...they're late."

"By three hours?" Narcissa asked in a slightly higher tone. Parenthood was a sacred duty, and she would never abandon her own son like that. Perhaps she did spoil him, but he had been a precious gift. "Are they coming at all?"

" _Mother!"_ Draco hissed from the side. "Let's go! She's just a mudblood, why do you care–"

" _Silence."_ Narcissa knew Draco must have turned pink with anger in response to her the command – her son was so easy to rile at times – but she didn't have the time for his tantrums. Her inner world was in turmoil, as the distinct pull of magic raged around her, leading her closer to this girl and insisting that she help her, protect her, and even…nurture her. And, much like a fish caught by the tide, Narcissa couldn't resist. She went along.

"I...I don't know," the girl stammered and then started to babble, all of her fears rising to the surface in one big exclamation. "They're late, and they're never late, so I tried calling them, but the phone doesn't work, and I haven't heard or seen them for half a year, so I don't really know what's–"

"Alright, there-there." Narcissa cringed at her choice of words. _There-there?_ Really? Any more pedestrian, and she'd sound like one of those fish girls at the market, calling out the catch of the day.

 _"Oysters, clams and cockles!"_ Rang through the recesses of her mind, forcing a visible shudder. "Do you have any money?" she asked, to cover the dragging silence.

"Just a galleon and some sickles, but that's not good here…"

Of course it wasn't. "Is your home far?"

"We...we live in Sutton," the girl hesitantly responded, still obviously unsure of Narcissa's intentions.

Narcissa sighed. _Sutton._ How utterly middle class. "Very well. Stay here for a moment. Draco, a word." When her son leaned in, she whispered, "Remain with the girl and _do not_ antagonize her. I know full well your feelings of hatred, but now is not the time."

"I don't understand–" he began, but she cut him off.

"You don't need to understand. You just need to do what I tell you. So be a good boy, and I won't inform your father of the reason behind our little trip here. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Draco huffed sulkily, shooting a glare towards the source of his many academic misfortunes. Still, Narcissa knew he'd hold his word, so she straightened and asked: "Oh, and, Miss Granger, if I may: what is your full name?"

"Um, it's Hermione. Hermione Jean Granger."

"Hermione." The name sounded vaguely familiar, but why? Had Draco mentioned it in one of his peevish moods? "I'll be back shortly."

And with a flourish of her robes, Narcissa whirled to part the muggle crowds as if she were a queen striding through her subjects. Her destination in sight, she sighed again as one of her hands dipped into the purse at her side to retrieve a funny muggle contraption – a mobile, she believed it was called. She lacked any desire to use it whatsoever, but her circumstances offered no alternative. She needed _time._ Time to figure out what strange magic was stinging at her soul and directing her actions. Was it merely coincidence that Draco had left his broom in this muggle sector of King's Cross, forcing their return and subsequent run-in with Hermione Granger?

Well, Narcissa Malfoy did not believe in coincidences. Her keen senses had been tempered through a rigorous pureblood upbringing as well as by the treacherous waters of the Slytherin dungeons that housed the young snakes.

And all of her experiences were screaming one thing: she had just stumbled onto something big. Something dangerous.

But, if that was so, then what role was she about to play? And why did the girl matter?

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Fifteen minutes later, her mission complete, Narcissa returned to find the two children glaring daggers at each other. The girl – with her large front teeth and strands of wild, bushy hair – looked like some angry beaver guarding its nest. The nest, in this case, was her school trunk, which the girl (Hermione, Narcissa scolded herself mentally. She needed to call her Hermione to reach some level of rapport) had placed behind her, as if worried that Draco planned on stealing it.

"I've informed the station master of your situation," she announced, breaking up the staring game. "If your parents arrive, then he will notify them of the fact that you are being escorted to your home by...friends."

"Escorted?"

" _Escorted?!_

The two cries rang as one; one with surprise, the other outraged.

Ignoring her son, Narcissa explained, "Yes, Miss Granger. I'm willing to...give you a ride, as I believe muggles say. Unless you'd prefer to stay here and wait?"

"Um, no, I mean–" She'd obviously flustered the girl. "It's fine, I wouldn't want to impose–"

"It's not an imposition, it's an offer. Miss Granger, if you are feeling reluctant because of the...bad blood between yourself and my son, then I am willing to give you my word as a witch that no harm will come to you. But I will not tarry in my accommodation, so if you would kindly make a prompt decision…"

"No, no," Hermione stammered, red in the cheeks. "I'm sorry...it's just I wasn't expecting...thank you." She looked so grateful that Narcissa almost rolled her eyes. "Will we go by apparition?"

"Ugh, do you even know _anything?"_ Draco butted in, scoffing. "You can't apparate to places to you've never been in, so...wait. How _are_ we going then, mother?"

Hermione, who had blushed even stronger after being called out by her school nemesis, raised a pair of curious eyes.

"By muggle car."

" _WHAT? No_ –"

" _Don't make a scene,"_ Narcissa quickly leaned down to hiss into her son's ear. "We do not want to draw any attention to ourselves, _is that clear?"_

"Yes," he gulped.

"Good. Now assist Miss Granger with her trunk and follow me."

Draco flushed, but ultimately did as he was told, practically yanking the trunk from Hermione's hands. She was reluctant to let go at first, but finally relented to watch him with a just a touch of smugness.

Draco, puffing from exertion, looked mutinous.

Narcissa had no time for the children's silly squabbles. Setting a brisk pace, she led them out of the station and onto the loading/unloading area. Her words about not drawing attention had been deadly serious; until she figured out what connection she shared with the young Gryffindor witch, she wanted to play safe. Avoiding prying eyes and loose tongues was only the sensible thing to do.

Their car – a slick black limo, one of the stretched-sedan types – had already pulled up, and the driver was waiting. He opened the door for her (she was very careful not to let any part of him touch her), and then took the trunk and broom from Draco.

"Destination, ma'am?" he asked once the kids clambered in. Draco seemed repulsed, while Hermione glanced around with awe, and so it took her a moment to notice the question hanging in the air.

"Oh." Hermione colored again and stammered out her address to the driver, who immediately started the car. As soon as he did, Narcissa pressed a little button next to her seat, raising a privacy barrier between the passenger compartment and the driver's area. Muggles came up with such funny things sometimes; a pity most of them were geared towards destruction.

"THIS IS A MUGGLE CAR!" Draco exploded the second their driver couldn't hear them. "I'm going to puke, mother!" he cried, but she was unswayed by the retching noises that followed. She loved Draco, but he could be so dramatic.

"You'll be perfectly fine–"

"No, I won't!" he yelled. "And why do we even _have_ a car?! Or even this muggle...servant!"

Narcissa made a split second decision. She knew that the girl...that Hermione was listening closely, and this could be the moment that defined their interactions in the near future. So she let herself open up with the truth – or, at least, part of it.

Hopefully, her candor would garner a modicum of trust, making Hermione respond so much easily to her subsequent queries.

So she leaned back and said, "Our family owns a number of muggle assets, of which this car service is just a small part."

"But _why?!"_

Feeling Hermione's curious gaze upon her, Narcissa explained, "Because it is prudent. Muggles hold a lot of power– no, Draco, don't argue, they do – and knowing how their world works gives us an edge. This does not mean we have to love them, but following the path of blind hatred is also a foolhardy and deadly endeavor. Never let raw emotion govern your decisions. It makes you open to manipulation, and there will always be someone eager to exploit such a weakness. Remember, Slytherin is, above everything, about the ability to _adapt._ A snake must always be ready to shed its scales. Leave reckless stubbornness and entrenchment for the Hufflepuffs, the Gryffindors...well," she chuckled in a low tone, "I'm certain Miss Granger would disagree with me there."

Hermione had been watching her with eyes wide open, soaking up every word of her monologue, as if she were a professor lecturing students. But then, given the girl's lowly heritage, that metaphor was probably apt. Hermione Granger, despite her exemplary grades, knew next to _nothing_ of the wizarding world, of its customs and traditions, the proud families, the lineages, or the private, guarded histories that retreated into the foggy mists of ancient time.

So Narcissa indulged her in a bit of conversation, weaving a tantalizing web of words to intrigue the young girl. Soon, Hermione was chatting excitedly, sharing her opinions, thoughts and many, _many_ questions. Narcissa answered the safe ones and then followed up with subtle inquiries about the girl's background, seeking any grain of information that would explain their unlikely tether.

"Wait," Narcissa said when Hermione was in the middle of explaining the root of her current predicament, "you mean, you haven't heard from your parents since _January?"_

"Well...no," Hermione confirmed, fidgeting with her hands. "But, I was in the hospital wing for most of that time, 'cos I figured out that there was a basilisk in the walls and I was walking around with a mirror, only for it to find me–"

"And neither of your parents came to visit, to see if their daughter was safe? Did the headmaster even notify them?"

"I'm sure he did." Her tone said anything but, and Hermione's eyes suddenly grew moist. Narcissa quickly changed topics.

She carried on the conversation, listening for any clues. Draco stayed quiet, sulkily staring out the window, where the roads and walkways had become illuminated by bright street lamps. Neon signs advertised shops and wares; bars stood open, welcoming the Friday crowd. People laughed and hollered; couples strolled by, holding hands; children wove circles 'round exasperated parents.

Up above, over the mayhem and inevitable chaos of human lives, a full moon, fat as a glazed bun, rolled up over the buildings to shine with drunk, uncaring light.

"And that was the school where I attended primary," Hermione was saying. "That was before I found out I was a witch, of course. And that's our street. Our house is at the very end – it's a little separate from the others, but it's very nice, and mum planted a whole row of cypress trees that give off a wonderful shade in the summer; and, yes, we're about to see it, in fact, there it–"

Hermione's voice broke off suddenly, and Narcissa turned her head to observe the cause behind such an abrupt silence. Her eyebrows rose.

The place Hermione was pointing at, where – by her own words – the Granger family had lived since the date of her birth...was empty.

There was no house. Only the cypress trees stood, waving in a gentle breeze.

The car lurched to a stop, and Hermione stumbled out. "I don't understand," she mumbled shakily.

Narcissa, after making sure her wand was in reach, followed. She sensed clouds of decaying magic hanging in the air.

It was going to be a complicated night.

* * *

 **Corrections, thoughts, even hate mail - all appreciated!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Of Home, Interrupted**

Dimly, as if only a distant observer, Hermione registered Narcissa dismissing the muggle driver, and the car noiselessly gliding away.

Then a hand pressed down on her shoulder.

"Don't move," Narcissa whispered, carefully stepping forward until her feet touched the grass. Her wand was already out, moving in a series of sharp jabs and twirls. A soft greenish light came from its end and flew high into one half of a parabolic arc, where it paused at the apex and then burst apart into a dozen rays that tumbled straight down.

Hermione let her mind be carried away by the beautiful sight. She didn't want to ponder the ramifications of their unexpected discovery. Instead, she watched Narcissa's magic – some kind of advanced revealing charm – cover the ground in front of her, unveiling large swirls of magical energy that floated lazily above the grass like a pack of jellyfish. At their cores, they were bright, but the edges had dimmed into a gray and fading mist.

"What are they?" she asked quietly.

"Remnants of powerful spells," Narcissa whispered back. "Their structures have degraded, and the energies once contained within are now in a state of chaos. It's unsafe to come any closer."

"What was their purpose?"

"I can't say. But it was powerful and longlasting magic; much of it dark in nature. There – see? In the center? The pulsating? That was the initial catalyst, and it was based upon blood. Someone died there."

Hermione felt her eyes grow wet. "My…my parents?" she asked, a traitorous quiver in her voice.

Narcissa turned sharply. "Oh, no, darling," she answered, taking out a handkerchief and carefully wiping the tears on Hermione's cheeks. A distant part of her objected; comforting mudbloods was not in the Malfoy family repertoire, and yet Narcissa found the action to be surprisingly soothing. "This happened long ago."

"But where are they then?" Hermione sniffled. "Where's my home? I need to...I need to contact the police…"

"Your house and parents have disappeared under uncertain, but unquestionably _magical_ circumstances," Narcissa countered gently, putting the square bit of cambric cloth back into her robes. "Muggle authorities will not be able to help you."

"Then the Ministry...or Dumbledore! I'm sure he can find them!"

"That is one possibility," Narcissa agreed, thinking she would be damned before she reached out to Albus Dumbledore for any sort of assistance. Or the Ministry, for that matter. "For now, let's go to a safe place and consider our options. Draco, come here. Take the trunk, hold my hand. You too, Hermione. Ready? On three. One, two…"

Narcissa whispered a spell, and the world spun like a dradle, colors of black and blue, brightened by just a narrow strip of moon that gleamed in the darkness with a topaz hue. When the movement stopped, Hermione found herself standing outside a grand building topped with a steeply-pitched mansard roof. Magical lights adorned its stately facade, spreading their light into the lush gardens growing near its walls. Smells of thyme and rosemary wafted through the nighttime summer air.

This was the home of the Malfoy family.

Hermione, for all her worry, couldn't suppress a moment of wondrous awe. The residence looked like it had just come off the pages of a children's fantasy novel; one of kings and queens, mythical beasts, princesses in need of rescue, and the fire-spitting dragons that guarded them.

Two sudden pops shook her out of her reverie. A pair of squat creatures with large, protruding ears appeared, and Hermione marveled at how similar to Dobby the looked.

Behind her, Draco dropped her trunk with an audible huff, letting one of the elves pick it up.

"Linny," Narcissa said, shrugging off her robes and striding in through a set of wide, wrought iron doors, "tell Lucius to meet me in the yellow room and escort Miss Granger to one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor. Make her a light snack and something to drink – hot chocolate, perhaps."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione interrupted, "but I can't stay. I need to find out where my mum and dad are."

"Of course, dear. And I will help you, I just need to have a word with my husband first. In the meantime, you can grab a bite to eat, as I imagine you haven't had anything since the train?"

"Not since Hogwarts even," Hermione replied honestly.

"Well then, you must be starving!" Narcissa exclaimed. "Go, eat some food, it'll keep your wits sharp. Draco will take you; Linny stay back a moment. And, Draco... _behave yourself,"_ she added, pinning him with a glare.

The young Malfoy heir grumbled, but then mentioned for Hermione to follow him as he stomped up the stairs. Narcissa waited till the children were out of earshot before turning towards her house-elf. "Now, listen carefully," she said. "I have a few more instructions regarding Miss Granger…"

After the house-elf bowed and disappeared to carry out her orders, Narcissa made her way up to the third floor.

It was time for a conversation with her husband.

 **. . . .**

"A mudblood?" Lucius exclaimed, vacillating between outrage and disbelief. "You brought a _mudblood_ into our home?!"

"Lucius…"

"Cissy, dear, are you unwell? Is it stress? I know we agreed on three hundred guests for Draco's birthday party, but perhaps that's too many–"

"Lucius, will you just listen–"

"–or is this some message you're trying to send me? That's it, isn't it?! You're still upset about Cassandra, and this is your way of getting back. Well, I told you, that kiss meant nothing! _She_ came onto _me!_ You know how those girls are, drawn like moths to my flame–"

" _Will you just shut the fuck up and listen to me, Lucius?!"_

Resorting to profanity was an exceptionally uncommon occurrence for Narcissa; indeed, she did it so rarely that her husband instantly fell mute – more so from surprise than obedience. Narcissa used the moment of silence to deliver her news.

"I'm bonded with the girl."

"Bonded?!" Lucius snapped out of his shock. "That's impossible! You've never seen her before!"

"And yet it is true. The moment I rested my eyes on her, I could feel it in my bones: a pull, a desire to...protect." Narcissa paced across the room, looking distraught. "And I don't know why!" she cried, wringing her hands. "What connects us?! What magic has tied me to a muggleborn witch just entering her third year at Hogwarts?!"

Lucius, frowning at the growing signs of his wife's distress, shifted and gently said, "Calm down, Cissy. We'll figure this out. Why don't you tell me more about this...Granger girl and how you found her."

Narcissa took a breath, gathering her thoughts. "We stumbled upon her in King's Cross…" she began, and Lucius settled in to listen, leaning forward in his basket chair so he wouldn't miss a word.

"So her parents have mysteriously disappeared, her home is gone, and you've become aware of a perplexing connection between the two of you," he summed up when Narcissa finished her tale.

"Yes."

"Where is she now?"

"In one of the guest bedrooms. I told Linny to bring her some food and mix a spoonful of sleeping draught into her drink. She'll rest till morning."

"I assume you had a reason for this?" Lucius asked.

"She wants to go to the Ministry, to Dumbledore!" Narcissa spat with disgust. "The moment she contacts the authorities for assistance, they'll recognize our connection, and I refuse to be inspected by some Ministry halfwit or, Merlin forbid, the Headmaster himself. We have to figure this out ourselves!"

"Alright," Lucius agreed, drumming his fingers against the chair's armrests. "Then we lock the girl in; keep her here, with us in the Manor. If no one knows where she is–"

"No." Narcissa shook her head vehemently. "I can't do that. Even the simple thought of harming or imprisoning her in any way makes me ill. We must make her _choose_ to stay by our side and keep this secret until we find out what we're dealing with."

Lucius scowled at the news, but refrained from voicing his displeasure. Instead, he pushed away his feelings to focus on discovering a solution to this ungodly mess that must have been dumped on him for whatever sins he had committed in the past. "There are some things we can do," he finally offered. "I'll reach out to a pair of muggle investigators, have them look into into her parents' past. That might give us a clue as to their current location or why they abandoned her – if they were even given a choice in the matter, that is. And we'll visit this house of theirs; I want to see for myself what sort of magic you witnessed there."

"Thank you," Narcissa said quietly, adding: "Just so you know, I've ordered the house-elves to block all the floos and tell anyone who attempts to contact us that we're away on holiday."

"That's wise." Something close to a smirk passed over Lucius' lips. "Wouldn't want anyone to find out we're harboring a mudblood in our home, imagine the _scandal_ –"

" _Lucius!_ None of that! You will be kind to the girl! I've already managed to establish a rapport, and I think she's beginning to trust me. So keep the rhetoric about mudbloods and muggles to yourself."

"Yes, I know, I know. I'll contain my feelings. Now, with that taken care of, we must decipher the true nature of your bond, but how…"

Lucius trailed off, pondering the problem. Neither he nor Narcissa were specialists in such magic, but bringing in a third party to consult was undesirable. Unfortunately, that left the Malfoys with a paucity of available options.

With both husband and wife lost deep in thought, the sounds of conversation ceased, and a quietness descended upon the room. Narcissa stood by the window, gazing out into the starlit gardens of her home. Her troubled features had shifted into shadow; only from one side did the soft glow of a shaded lamp chase away the dark.

"There is one way," she finally said, her breath fogging on the glass.

"What's that?" Lucius glanced at her, but she didn't answer, and his eyes went wide. "You can't mean…" he began, jumping up from his seat. "Cissy, no! It's too dangerous!"

"It's our only short-term option," Narcissa countered. "I don't have a choice."

"It nearly killed you the last time, and you were twelve years younger then!"

"Go, Lucius. We have much to do this night."

"But–"

"I won't change my mind. I'm sorry, my love."

"A mudblood!" Lucius cried out angrily. "You're doing all this for a mudblood! Is she even worth it?! Consider what you're putting at risk!"

"Please don't make this any harder for me."

"As if I even have any choice in the matter!" She could hear him fuming, pacing across the room. "I would have never thought you'd put some...girl over your own family," he snarled. "No matter what magic compels you."

Then his footsteps retreated, and he slammed the door on his way out.

Narcissa was left alone, standing still near the window for a full minute after her husband's departure. She didn't blame him. Her next actions would come with considerable peril, and Lucius was in his right to be angry at her. She tilted her head up, letting the moon's silver light shine into her eyes, as if praying or seeking an answer.

But the moon stayed cold, distant, silent. It didn't care for mortals and their petty lives.

Narcissa sighed and turned away. She couldn't afford delays. Just as she had told her husband: there was too much to do.

* * *

 **I so had Gaius Baltar's voice stuck in my head when I started writing Lucius' lines.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Revelations, Part One**

Hermione woke to the chatter of birds; the sound of the wind, rustling the open curtains; and the drone of a bee, prancing over vibrant flowers. When she opened her eyes, not a single worry plagued her; on the contrary, her mood, buoyed by a full night's rest, soared high.

When Hermione looked around, it was with a profound sense of peace, for the entirety of her surroundings held that quiet, unassuming comfort of home.

It took a conscious mental effort to remind herself that, technically, she didn't _have_ a home anymore. Or a room, or a even a bed, although she was currently in one. She was just a guest here; a traveler passing through; a ship in a foreign port.

But even that thought couldn't dampen her spirits.

So it was with a smile that she tossed away the covers and rose to greet the day – only to jump at a sudden, high-pitched noise.

"Good morning, miss!"

Hermione whirled around to find a house-elf standing by the door – it was the same one that had brought her dinner last night. The elf bowed, waiting expectantly, but instead of responding, Hermione froze.

With the heat of blood rushing to her cheeks, Hermione suddenly realized that someone had changed her. Yesterday, when she'd fallen asleep on top of the covers, it had been in her street clothes. But now, she was dressed in a lilac-colored pyjama set, and she hoped – she _really_ hoped – that it was the elf that had done the deed, and not…

An unbidden image of a scowling Draco Malfoy tugging off her sneakers flashed through her mind, and she giggled – albeit somewhat hysterically.

What would Harry or Ron say?

The pause stretched, meanwhile, and Hermione finally managed to stutter out, "Oh, erm...good morning," as she hesitantly eyed the creature, which gazed upon her with large, opal-like eyes. "Can you tell me where my things are?" she asked, deciding to forgo the embarrassing matter.

"Linny took miss's clothes to the wash," the elf replied, sniffing disdainfully, as if the action had somehow offended her. "But the trunk and a new set of garments may be found in the closet. Breakfast will be served in twenty minutes in the green room. The Lord and Lady request your presence."

"The green room?"

"Miss will call Linny when ready; Linny will escort."

"Oh, well...thank you, Linny."

The elf blinked, looking affronted. "Will there be anything else?" she asked, carefully backing away from the strange girl that offered such dangerous niceties.

"No, thank–"

Her words were cut off with a pop as the elf hastily vanished from sight. Hermione stood for a moment, confused; wondering if she had upset the little creature somehow. Having no time to waste, however, she resolved to look up elfish behavior in a library book, and then made her way towards the shower, which turned out to be larger than the entire first floor of her old house.

 **. . . .**

The green room was, unsurprisingly, green. Dozens of lilies drifted in ornate, emerald vases; the walls were the color of fresh alpine grass. A round table of oak stood in the center, seating the Malfoy family.

"Come in, Hermione," Narcissa welcomed her with a warm smile. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Hermione said, but neither of the Malfoy men responded. Lucius' eyes glimmered with hate; Draco just looked confused, like the whole world had turned on its shoulder, leaving him somewhere behind.

Narcissa's smile waned a little, but she made a beckoning gesture nonetheless. It took that and a brief act of courage for Hermione to approach and take a seat. She wouldn't have done so without Mrs. Malfoy's invitation. Draco was a bully, and his father probably downright evil, but Mrs. Malfoy…

Hermione still remembered the moment of warmth when she saw Narcissa on the train station. It had flushed through her veins, tasting of hope and an instant antidote to her worries; somehow, she'd known the woman would help. That awareness persisted even now.

The conversation was subdued. With the exception of Narcissa, the Malfoys ignored her, and Hermione tried to stay as quiet as possible, despite the burning desire to ask a million questions. But one look from the matriarch made her hold her tongue. Instead, she nibbled on her toast and bit into the fresh, sun-kissed strawberries that burst apart with flavor in her mouth. Discreetly, as she ate, Hermione observed the Malfoy family, noting the dark circles under the adults' eyes and the lines of worry etched into their tired faces.

She'd bet her single galleon that they hadn't had a moment's wink of rest.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep last night," she quietly said, after Draco had been dismissed from the table. "I didn't mean to abuse your hospitality. I guess I was just so exhausted."

"Nonsense," Narcissa waved her concerns away. "You needed the rest. Besides, Lucius and I had a productive evening. We've discovered a great deal."

"You've found my parents?" Hermione exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with hope. "Are they coming here?!"

Narcissa shared a quick look with Lucius, who, instead of helping his wife, merely grunted. Exasperated, Narcissa shook her head and glanced back to Hermione, silently praising herself for ordering the elves to place five drops of a calming draught into the girl's tea. It would quell any excessive outbursts of emotion.

"No, they are not," she answered bluntly, and then leaned forward, folding her hands together. "Hermione, if I may...but how well do you know your parents?"

"Well, they're my mum and dad," Hermione answered with some confusion. "What kind of a question is that?"

"Indeed, it's a silly one," Narcissa agreed, readily. "I just want you to be prepared for some of things I'll say, because they might surprise you. Now, finish your tea, and I'll tell you."

Hermione obediently lifted the cup to her lips and drank, relishing in the calming feeling that spread through her body. The Malfoys, whatever their faults, served excellent tea.

With the cup empty, Hermione asked, "Did you contact the Ministry regarding my parents' disappearance?"

"We did not," Narcissa answered truthfully, raising a hand to forestall additional questions. "This is a complicated matter, and neither Lucius nor I feel that involving the authorities is in anyone's best interest. If you disagree, we won't stop you from going – I'll take you to the Ministry myself, in fact – but first, please listen."

Narcissa took a breath, as if to gather her thoughts.

"Last evening, after you went to bed, we decided to pursue the matter from several angles. I returned to the location of your home and spent most of the night analyzing the lingering traces of magical energy there. I mastered in charms after Hogwarts, you see, and the spells near your residence were cast by someone very proficient in that branch of magic. Brilliant, even." Narcissa paused, a light frown creasing her brow as she remembered how frustratingly familiar that magic had felt. Like an old acquaintance whose name just slips from the mind.

"And what did you find?" Despite the troublesome circumstances, Hermione's voice resonated with scholarly anticipation.

"There were several layers of magic; half based on charms, half on transfiguration. The latter I can't say much about – transfiguration was never my forte. However, given the amount of energy used, the only reasonable explanation for applying such spells is that someone used magic to transfigure a great deal of matter and imbue it with a long-lasting, sustainable form. And, since the only object of notable mass near that location was your home..."

Narcissa trailed off, watching Hermione's eyes widen by a fraction. "My home," she echoed. "You want to say that...all these years, I've been living within a _spell?_ Inside a house built of magic?"

"Once again, I'm not certain," Narcissa softly answered, feeling a stab of pity for the poor girl. "But it does seem to be the most logical conclusion."

Hermione looked down at the table and sniffled. "Linny!" she heard Narcissa exclaim sharply. "Bring Miss Granger some more tea, the same kind." Ten seconds later, a full cup appeared in front of her, which Hermione grasped, cupping her fingers around the turquoise porcelain. The first sip instantly soothed.

"There's some sort of potion in here, isn't there?" she asked, mutely.

"A generic calming draught," Narcissa admitted. "No more than five drops."

Hermione took another sip and quietly said, "Thank you." She didn't know what exactly she was thanking Mrs. Malfoy for – whether for taking her in and providing shelter, or simply caring enough to add a calming potion to her drink so that she wouldn't fall apart right at the table.

"So what else did you find?" Hermione asked after placing the cup back.

"The charms were something I could decipher with higher proficiency. They were very strong confounding spells, with elements of the _imperius_ mixed in. You have heard about the unforgivable curses?"

" _Imperius,"_ Hermione recited from a book she'd once read, "allows the caster to control a target against his or her will."

"Very good," Narcissa answered, surprised. "This magic was similar in nature, but different in that it was tied to a location and was aimed at reinforcing certain behavior patterns. Basically, whoever the spells targeted would be compelled to act in a specific, recurring manner. "

"Like slaves," Hermione summed up, dully.

"Yes. Like...slaves."

"Anything else?"

"All the magic – both the transfiguration and charms elements – was tied together by a blood sacrifice. Someone gave their life so that the spells would last as long as they did. I estimate just over a decade. They were also powered by an outside source, and I believe that it was you, Hermione. Your presence on the property gave the magic life, allowing the spells to retain their original form and purpose."

"Until I left for Hogwarts," Hermione deduced, taking the logical leap.

"Indeed. Once you were gone, the spells began to unravel. Ten years is a long time, even for blood magic. Whoever cast it was truly a master of the art. But once you – their source of energy – left, the magical forms inevitably began to degrade. Then, your petrified state over the past several months would have severed the connection even further. The magic slowly collapsed in on itself, the transfigured house and the accompanying confounding charms going along with it. And that left what we saw last night: chaotic formations that are but remnants of once potent spells."

A pause followed Narcissa's words, while Hermione struggled to assimilate this new information. "Can I have another cup?" she asked quietly, after a moment.

"Of course, dear. Linny!"

This time, the elf appeared herself, and Hermione, in her muddled state, forgot to thank her. This seemed to appease the elf, who gave her a bow before disappearing.

"Lucius?" Narcissa prodded her husband in the meantime. "Your turn." Nudging the elf's confusing behavior (who _doesn't_ like being thanked?) back for another day, Hermione lifted her eyes to gaze upon the patriarch of the Malfoy estate.

Lucius returned her look with contempt, but then, at his wife's insistence, began to speak.

"After leaving my wife at the remains of your home," he told Hermione in frosty tones, "I went on to contact several private investigators in the muggle realm. I provided them with basic information on your guardians, which, as the chairman of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, I have access to. My people have been working through the night. Miss Granger," he said, curving his lips into a nasty smirk, "did you know that your parents were unemployed?"

" _Lucius!"_ Narcissa scolded, while Hermione blinked and then yelled indignantly: "That's not true! My parents work as dentists! And they're very good at their jobs!"

"And I have the word of two ex-police detectives that says otherwise," Lucius retorted. "There's not a single dentistry office that employs them, and no tax document that reflects any source of income whatsoever. In fact, neither Richard nor Emma Granger have what muggles call a National Insurance Number, although we were able to find one in your name. Additionally, their financial details show that they haven't made a single bank deposit in almost twelve years. They opened their accounts with a sizable amount of cash though, which they've been living on ever since."

"Your lying to me!" Hermione cried out with tears in her eyes. "This is some sick, twisted joke, and you're just enjoying it, aren't you?!"

"In short," Lucius continued, ruthlessly, "I believe that your so-called parents don't even–"

"Lucius, stop!" Narcissa yelled, jumping up from her seat and dashing towards Hermione. The drops of calming draught had certainly done their job; even so, Hermione had begun to cry, wiping furiously at the tears with clenched fists. "It's not true," she repeated stubbornly. "All of it! I don't believe a word!"

"Shh, child," Narcissa soothed, lifting her arms to embrace the girl, and Hermione hugged her back, hiding her face in the witch's robes. Her small frame shuddered with sobs. Narcissa held her tight, running her hands through Hermione's bushy locks and whispering comforting words.

Lucius, watching the tender sight unfolding in front him, felt a stab of guilt for his behavior; albeit one he'd never own up to.

"Come," he heard Narcissa say, tearing him out of his musings. "Let's wash you up a bit and go for a walk. It'll make you feel better. Come on, Hermione. Come…"

And, with a parting glare at her husband, Narcissa left, tugging the little girl – a child still, but not for long – along.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

"It's all true, isn't it?" Hermione asked in a dull voice two hours later.

Narcissa looked out over the broad vistas before replying. She'd taken Hermione to the edge of the Malfoy property, where a wooden pier jutted out into the sparkling waters of a sapphire-blue lake. Tall weeds and cattails grew near the shore, thin forms bent in the wind. The sun shimmered above, a molten egg in a field of turquoise, and the two witches, socks and shoes abandoned, sat under its golden rays on the very edge of the pier, treading their bare feet over the warm water.

"Lucius was blunt, but he did not lie," she finally answered. "And neither will I. In fact, I won't ever lie to you Hermione, but I think you already know that. You can feel it, can't you?"

From her side, Hermione nodded and softly said, "I trust you. I don't know why, but I do."

They sat for a little while more after that, listening to the insects buzz by and watching hungry fish jump up to catch their prey.

"Are they even my parents?" Hermione broke the silence.

Narcissa shrugged. "We don't know. But all evidence seems to point to the fact that the Granger family is but a carefully constructed myth; one which you've lived all your life."

"The compulsion magic...it made them do it, didn't it? My parents...or whoever they are...they were trapped, forced to take care of me."

Narcissa didn't comment, letting Hermione talk the matter out.

"It all just felt so real, you know?" she heard. "We were a family. They taught me and held me when I cried, read me stories at night. They told me they loved me. But did they really or was that just the magic? Was it all simply one big fat lie?!"

"Magic can't fake the feelings in your soul, dear. While some things may have been false, that – the love and affection – was very much real."

"I loved them too," Hermione agreed, sniffling a little. "I still do."

"Of course you do. They were your caregivers, and, from what I can see, they did a remarkable job."

"I never did visit their dentistry, though. They told me so many stories about it, but whenever I asked to go see it there was always some excuse. Guess now I know why." Hermione shook her head sadly and then asked: "Could you find them?"

"Lucius is working on that, dear. But the Granger identities appeared approximately twelve years ago, so it might be a little difficult. And it's possible…" Narcissa hesitated, but then trudged on, "it's possible the magic, once it broke down, took all their memories with it. They might not remember you at all. They would have just woken up one day, just two people in a strange place with no memory of how they got there. But that's just one possibility. I'm mostly speculating at this point."

Hermione took the news silently, kicking her feet up and down, sending splashes of water up against the wood.

"You were against contacting the Ministry about this," she suddenly said. "Why?"

Instead of answering directly, Narcissa cocked her head to the side and asked, "Can you recall the feeling when you first saw me on the railway station?"

"I can," Hermione nodded. "I was worried, but then, when you came, it was...like I suddenly knew everything would be alright. That you'd help me. And you did."

"I couldn't not. There's a magic between us, Hermione. Something that binds us together, but how it came to be is a mystery...for now. If the people in the Ministry found out about it...well, let's just say I have little reason to trust them. In fact, I wouldn't trust anyone with this knowledge. Besides, someone went to great lengths in order to keep you hidden, and we must first understand _why_ before announcing that fact to the world."

"That makes sense, I guess. Do you have a way to figure out what's between us?"

Narcissa felt her shoulders tense. Hermione sensed the reaction and turned to stare at the older witch curiously. "You _do_ have a way!" she exclaimed.

"Yes." Narcissa smiled wanly. "There's a ritual. A way to ask for...clarity or answers. It might help."

"But?" Hermione asked, sensing the hesitation in her companion's words.

"But it's dangerous," Narcissa sighed. "It takes a lot out of the individual that attempts it. Energy, life force; some cases have ended in fatalities. Lucius was furious when I suggested it."

"I don't want you to get hurt," Hermione said matter-of-factly, eliciting a warm laugh from the witch next to her. "I'll try not to, sweetheart," Narcissa answered. "But I've already begun preparing for the ritual, and by this point I must follow through."

"Can I help?"

"I'll need a few drops of your blood. You'll be the nature of my inquest, after all. Beyond that, however...just keep me in your thoughts, dear."

"I will." Hermione responded with a dazzling smile. Narcissa couldn't resist the urge to reach out and run her fingers through the girl's hair, tugging a few errant curls back behind Hermione's ears. After Draco had been born, the Malfoys had tried to conceive again, but it just hadn't been in the cards. Now that point was moot, however. Looking into Hermione's trusting, shining eyes, Narcissa felt what it was like to have a daughter.

A very inquisitive one, it seemed, because at that moment Hermione erupted into a barrage of questions.

"When will the ritual take place? Is it mentioned in any books? I want to read all about it. Do they teach it at Hogwarts?"

Narcissa laughed. "I'll tell you all that I can," she said lightly, but then followed up with a more serious tone. "The reading will have to wait, however. There's not much time till the ritual."

"When?" Hermione asked worriedly. "When are–"

"Midnight, child. Midnight."

* * *

 **Hopefully, it's not going too slow!**

 **Share your thoughts - and a great thank you to those that already have!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Beta'd by Frogster - a huge thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: The Ritual**

Drip.

Drip.

It was a steady tap that echoed through the corridors, the sound of water pooling on stone ceilings only to be tugged down by gravity.

Drip.

Drip.

The fat droplets fell on the cold, hard stone, a fate as inevitable as the waning of the moon.

Drip.

An oil lantern – the only source of illumination – burned on the wall. Within its flickering light, Hermione could see her breath fog in the frigid air, the vapor twisting into strange and ominous shapes.

Lucius stood across from her, his back to the light and face hidden in shadow. Only his eyes gleamed, feral-like, like a panther's in the night. Hate simmered under the surface of his gaze, and Hermione knew she was the reason why. Lucius blamed her. Maybe he was right.

At his side, Draco shifted. He leaned in close to his father, standing with his arms crossed. He looked scared.

Hermione was scared too. Narcissa had been optimistic, but now, in this cold darkness, her parting words of comfort were but faint echoes. Worry and despair played their tune in Hermione's soul, but there was nothing she could do.

There was nothing any of them could do but wait.

And so they did. Minute into minute, hour into hour, drowning in a sea of dark.

Drip.

Drip...

 **Three hours earlier**

"Seven drops, dear, that's good," Narcissa's voice carried over from the other end of the potions' room. Hermione cautiously eyed the needle in her hand. She'd sterilized it herself, twice, and was now just delaying the inevitable.

"I can do it, if you'd like," Narcissa offered, quirking a smile when Hermione scowled in response. The little lion seemed determined to prove herself; a consequence of her assumed heritage, perhaps. Thus, predictably, the needle went into motion, a quick cut, and then a trickle of red welled up, falling from the broken skin. Hermione furrowed her brows in concentration, counting out the exact amount into a small vial.

"Wonderful," Narcissa cooed when the vial was capped and carefully stowed away. "Here," she added, gently taking Hermione's hand and tapping the cut on her thumb with her wand. The wound healed; new skin fresh and pink. The thin line, aided by magic, would disappear within a day.

Hermione had endured the entire ordeal staunchly, leaving Narcissa with a glowing sense of pride. Usually, such feelings were reserved for members of her own family, but fate had made its decree, and Hermione was now part of the small circle that warmed Narcissa's heart.

This emotional connection – sparked into existence at first sight at King's Cross – now seemed forged of adamantium, leaving the Malfoy matriarch baffled. No matter how much she raked her mind, seeking an explanation, none would come, as if the magic that had gripped her was also preventing her from finding the truth.

"Can you tell me more about the Echo?" Hermione's voice interrupted her troubled thoughts. Narcissa smiled. Hermione had been badgering her incessantly, firing off questions about the ritual and going off on tangents when she stumbled upon something new. Narcissa, unable to refuse, had explained as much as she could, enjoying the way Hermione's eyes widened in wonder every time another detail of the magical world became unveiled.

"The Echo?"

"Yes!" Hermione nodded eagerly. "I've never seen it mentioned in any book, certainly not the school ones."

"I'm not surprised," Narcissa replied. "You'll find that the Hogwarts' curriculum is rather limited in that regard; many spells and magical rituals are kept secret among the old families. We don't share that kind of magic; we covet it, keeping it hidden from the world."

Hermione bit her lip, frowning at the dismissive appraisal of her own school. True, she didn't have many others to compare it with, but she had always considered Hogwarts a paragon of magical education. It appeared that Narcissa had picked up on her thoughts, however, because she quickly elaborated: "I don't mean that the Hogwarts staff actively thwarts its students, dear. But their job is to ensure that children are able to meet academic standards, and those are tailored to the average among you. I'm sure you could name several of your peers that are struggling even now. Imagine where they would be if the educational demands were raised any higher."

Hermione's mind instantly jumped to Crabbe and Goyle – a bumbling duo as capable with their wands as Neville's frog was at ballet.

Hermione's expression must have spoken for itself, because Narcissa exclaimed: "See! Hogwarts is a good school, but it will never teach you greatness. If you aspire to be something more than a mid-level bureaucrat at the Ministry, then you will reach beyond what the NEWTs demand and begin gathering your own stash of secrets. And, as I have already said, many types of magic are already kept private among families or individuals, with few willing to share their knowledge."

"But why?" Hermione perked up curiously, accepting the claim. "Couldn't so much be achieved by letting others know?"

Amused at the innocence of the question, Narcissa chuckled softly and answered, "You're right. We bar ourselves from a whole fountain of innovation, but it has always been this way. Secrets are the bedrock of power, child. How else do you think certain families have come to wield such influence? Or gather immeasurable wealth? We use what we have to our advantage, passing our knowledge down through the generations, so that our children may hold and contribute to the family legacy. No one would ever willfully give up such an edge."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. Imagining Draco, that spoiled brat, upholding any sort of legacy was a herculean task. But an even larger part of Narcissa's words irker her. She just couldn't believe that what Narcissa described was a norm: that knowledge, instead of being shared, was simply hoarded by the egotistic and ambitious for their personal gain.

So she began to argue by saying, "But Dumbledore–" and Narcissa actually laughed.

"Albus Dumbledore is one of the most powerful wizards in the world," she declared, "and a perfect example to my words. You think he achieved his status by playing nice? Don't be fooled by the Headmaster's caring and absent looks, Hermione; it's a facade that he often uses to his advantage. Behind those twinkling eyes lies a mind that is as sharp and deadly as a spear. Dumbledore has delved into unfathomable depths of magic, and trust me, he has not shared his discoveries with the world...and certainly not with his students. You wouldn't be able to find a single textbook he has authored, and when he taught as a transfigurations professor, he always kept to the prescribed curriculum. So, if you ever want to reach his level of power, then you will heed my words. Take and learn what you can, and never expect help from others."

Hermione frowned, mulling over this information. Emotionally, she wanted to overturn every one of Narcissa's claims, but the words held a cruel logic. It wasn't right, Hermione thought; it wasn't _fair,_ but it was probably _true._ But in order to change the way things were – and she already was determined to accomplish that! – she would first need to do exactly as Narcissa suggested: gather knowledge and power.

The fact that this would broaden Hermione's academic horizons was an admittedly beneficial side effect.

Thus, with a deep breath and a touch of barely concealed excitement, Hermione bravely promoted, "So, then…the Echo."

A brief smirk passed over Narcissa's lips. The girl was adapting – and rather quickly. "The Echo," she answered slowly, "is one of the Malfoy family secrets. I won't give out the specific details yet – even Draco only knows the bare minimum – but I will reiterate that it is a way that one of us can ask for assistance from the lands we live on. A thousand years of Malfoy flesh and blood lies in this ground, which has...awakened it, to an extent – imbued it with an echo of the witches and wizards that once strolled through these halls. The ground knows us now, and we feel it as well. This bond offers mostly passive boons to our family, but it can be used in an active fashion as well."

"And that's what you plan to use to find out how we're connected? That's why you needed my blood?"

"Right on both counts, dear. The blood will act as a focal point to my inquiry."

"But didn't you say that the ritual could be dangerous?" Hermione carefully objected.

"An active connection – yes. Lucius' father, Abraxas, once tried to use it as a weapon against his enemies, to strike them down in their own homesteads."

"And?" Hermione asked, the foreboding tone sparking her curiosity.

"And he died," Narcissa bluntly answered. "His magic burned out, turning him into a graying husk that decayed into dust within minutes." Hermione looked properly horrified, until Narcissa, almost as an afterthought, dreamily added: "Lucius is rather fond of that memory. He never did like his father much."

While Hermione was trying to come up with an acceptable response to _that_ revelation, Narcissa smirked and patted her shoulder, saying, "But don't worry. I shall be fine. I'm not planning on burning my enemies with fire and lightning here. Now, come along, dear. I'm sure the men are already waiting downstairs; there's not much time left. In several hours, this will be all be over. Come."

Narcissa strode out into the corridor first so that Hermione wouldn't detect the drawn lines crossing her pale features. Her optimistic tone had been nothing more than a brash facade to cover a flurry of fears. The sole time she had attempted the ritual in the past, it had nearly killed her.

She prayed this attempt would yield a better outcome.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

As predicted, Lucius and Draco were downstairs, pacing. Lucius ran up to his wife when she descended; Hermione, feeling like an intruder, moved away to offer them some privacy. She didn't need to hear what Mr. Malfoy was saying, though: his posture alone spoke volumes. He didn't want Narcissa to go through with this madness.

Hermione looked away, shifting uneasily, but then, in what seemed like an instant, Narcissa's hand was already tugging her along, as the group of four navigated their way through a series of corridors, down several flights of stairs, and a variety of rooms. Hermione kept glancing around, observing her surroundings changing from posh, showy exteriors to areas that were obviously reserved for servants. High grade craftsmanship and gold-trimmed galleries gave way to plain stretches of corridor that were soon replaced by brick. These were obviously the older parts of Malfoy Manor; unused, they looked as though no one had set foot there in centuries, although everything was immaculately clean.

Probably the elves' work, Hermione thought.

Soon, even the bricks disappeared. In their stead, the walls became composed of large and uneven pieces of stone, held together by mortar. Hermione brushed her hand against the rough surface, tracing the grooves and ridges with her fingers as she walked. How old were these building blocks, she wondered? A thousand years? More? Was Malfoy Manor an original building, or had it been constructed on some older foundation?

Soon, those thoughts were replaced by other matters. The air had become noticeably cooler, causing whole schools of goosebumps to flit over Hermione's skin. She shivered, trying to stay close to Mrs. Malfoy, but being careful to not tread on her heels. It was getting harder to see. Magical lights had disappeared a while ago, giving way to bronze oil lanterns and then torches that were spaced every thirty feet. It was also quiet, unnaturally so. No one, not even Draco, who had whined at the start, uttered anything out loud, and even the sound of footsteps was noticeably absent.

To Hermione, the combination of silence, darkness, and cold made it seem like they were descending into the very bowels of the earth, but it wasn't that which troubled her. No.

As she walked, dutifully following Mrs. Malfoy, Hermione became aware of a presence. It was light, at first, a gentle coating that could be ignored as a fault in one's perception, but now it was heavy, pressing down with the force of an avalanche and the roar of a winter storm. Its oppressive mass was daunting, vast; and yet the Malfoys appeared unbothered.

Hermione thought back to Mrs. Malfoy's words of the Echo and realized that she was probably experiencing it first hand.

Finally, the group arrived at a rough opening, a gaping maw that seemed to have been boiled out of the stone. Darkness, thick as oil, swirled within; despite the proximity of a lantern, not a single ray of light penetrated the area beyond. Hermione swallowed, nervous, afraid. She saw the older Malfoys briefly hug, and then felt Mrs. Malfoy's arms tug around her own shoulders, before moving on to embrace her son. Not a single word was said; instead, a faint sound of dripping water percolated the silent exchange.

Drip.

Drip.

Hermione missed the moment when Mrs. Malfoy disappeared: one moment she had been right there, and then her form had vanished into the oily black.

And it was just the three of them, waiting in the cold dark.

Drip.

As she stood, Hermione grew increasingly worried. It was impossible to say how much time had passed; in this place, even the notion of time seemed foreign. That left Hermione with no frame of reference, nothing to hold onto or grasp for comfort. Instead, a multitude of thoughts swirled in her head. She cursed herself for going along with this plan; she should have vocally opposed it. It wasn't worth the risk. But instead of arguing, she had followed, letting herself be tugged along, a twig in the tide.

The water pooled and fell from stones above. Hermione tried counting the drops, but the numbers just jumbled together. Her mind flashed back to the railway station and how her life had changed in a mere twenty-four hours. Her world had been turned upside down, and she had been caught woefully unprepared. This wasn't some test she could regurgitate the answers to; this was real life, and instead of acting, she had done nothing. Of course, at the time, Mrs. Malfoy's logic and proposed actions had seemed infallible, but now Hermione truly realized the danger the older witch had put herself in.

And it was all for her.

She wanted to sob, but Lucius' eyes burned from above, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching her crumble. So she stood bravely, clutching her hands into fists, peering into that abyss which had swallowed Mrs. Malfoy whole.

Water dripped; darkness coiled all around. The temperature plummeted even further; Hermione's teeth chattered. The light was weak, a gasp away from death, and Hermione didn't know how much longer she could stay like this, as the weight of the Echo still bore down on her shoulders, an unbearable burden, and Draco was trembling nearby, and water dripped, and dripped, and…

She came out of the darkness, a pale ghost, a shadow, but Lucius was there instantly, catching his wife in his hands, pressing her close to his chest, mumbling in her ear. Her breathing was shallow, but in the sudden serene quiet, they all heard her whispered words.

"Lucius...I remember now: she's Adriana's daughter. She named her Selena. Selena Selwyn."

* * *

 **Honestly thought I'd get deeper into Hermione's story with this update, but the ritual tripped me up. Next chapter, though, I promise!**

 **And thank ye kidnly fore the reviews!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Happy New Year!**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Revelations, Part Two**

"Adriana Selwyn was my closest friend in school," Narcissa said three days later. Her voice was still weak, and her eyes burned feverishly, but she had insisted on telling her story the moment she felt she had the strength to do so.

Hermione took the news silently; she'd had three days to organize her thoughts, and she had done that well. Her emotions were a different matter, but she found that suppressing them worked just fine...for the moment, at least.

"Has Lucius told you anything?" Narcissa asked.

Hermione shook her head. Narcissa had slept for three days straight after her revelation, leaving Hermione alone with the male half of the Malfoy family. It hadn't been the most pleasant of experiences. After Narcissa was put to bed, Lucius had coolly informed Hermione that she would be confined to one wing of the Manor. He'd brushed away her indignant protests, summoning a pair of house elves to escort her up.

Hermione had gone for her wand, only to have it ripped out of her fingers by a disarming spell. "You'll have this returned when my wife wakes up," Lucius told her condescendingly, but it was his eyes that really unnerved her. They had been hateful before, resonating with his disgust, but now...now he looked upon Hermione with a cruelly calculated stare, like she was some business asset to exploit, or a heifer on a butcher's block, up for sale to the highest bidder.

Having no other option, Hermione squared her shoulders and marched up the stairs in silence, maintaining what was left of her dignity. She seethed inside.

Over the following days, the hatefulness faded. She found the solitude refreshing, in a way. Her room was spacious, the food superb, and she soon discovered that her gilded prison held a small library with cushy armchairs and stacks of books and magical tomes. She settled in, spending the days either exploring the rooms she had access to, or doing her homework and reading. At times, her mind would wander, revisiting the recent events.

She understood Narcissa's final words well. Selena Selwyn, she had said. Not Granger. Not even Hermione.

She'd been stripped of everything. Her home, her parents, her very name was a lie. It was something she couldn't really wrap her mind around. In fact, she didn't even want to. She just let these facts dangle in the distance, like some mirage among endless desert sands.

To carry the metaphor further, her avoidance of the issue made her an ostrich, but she was perfectly fine with that, thank you very much. Some things are just easier not to ponder.

So she dove into homework and books, finding solace among facts and knowledge that had no connection to the girl who was not Hermione Granger.

On the end of the third day, her solitude was interrupted by a knock. She thought it would be an elf. It was not.

"Mother wants to see you," Draco said stiffly, after letting himself in.

"She's well then?" Hermione asked. She'd been worried about Narcissa; a feeling that, she hoped, would never extend to her son.

"She is," Draco confirmed. "Now hurry up...Granger." The pause before her name was audible.

Hermione sniffed, rising to follow him. "My wand?" she inquired coldly.

Draco just shrugged and mentioned for her to follow. The rest of the journey went in silence.

"I'm sorry for Lucius' behavior," Narcissa said, after listening to Hermione's telling of events. "He should not have imprisoned you or taken your wand. I'll have him return it the instant he returns from the Ministry."

"The Ministry?" Hermione cocked an eyebrow, trying to hide her vast sense of relief at the news. Judging by the quirk on Narcissa's lips, she wasn't entirely successful.

Nevertheless, Narcissa didn't focus on the subject. Instead, she explained, "He's looking into certain...matters regarding you." A cough broke up her words, and she motioned for a glass filled with a clear liquid standing on the nightstand next to her bed. "Thank you," she murmured after Hermione brought it up to her lips.

"I'm glad you're alright," Hermione replied, voice heavy with guilt and gratitude. "I should have argued against the ritual. I wouldn't have let any of my friends go through with something like that. It wasn't worth the risk."

"It's fine," Narcissa waved her concerns away. "I'm just weakened, but the ritual went much more smoothly than the last time...because of you, dear."

"Me?" Hermione asked, but Narcissa didn't answer. Instead, she sat up, resting her head against the headboard of her bed, letting her eyes roam over Hermione's features.

"By the Fae," she murmured quietly. "You look just like her."

Hermione made the connection instantly. "Like Adriana? Your...best friend? The woman you say is my mother?"

"Her spitting image," Narcissa nodded.

"And how can that be?" Hermione scoffed. "Someone would have noticed by now, surely? _You_ would have noticed?"

Narcissa shook her head. "I couldn't make the connection. It's an ingenious spell – part of the magic that surrounded your home, no doubt, but it must have survived, even when the other spells faded. Are you familiar with a Fidelius charm?"

Hermione hesitated, heat rising to her cheeks. "It's alright to admit when you don't know something," Narcissa laughed. "The charm is miles above NEWT levels, after all." She quickly explained how a building could be hidden using a Fidelius charm, so that unless someone knew of its existence, they wouldn't be able to see it or enter. "The magic on you is similar, in a way. Physically, you resemble Adriana, but the spell prevents anyone from linking your image to hers. It's like...this subtle, misdirecting barrier in your mind, and unless you expressly inform someone of your secret, then they will never know of your relation, even if you'd put a picture of your mother in front of them."

Hermione shivered, casting her eyes down. Emma Granger raised her. She was her mother, not this...Adriana person. "But you broke the spell," she quietly said. "Using the ritual...the Echo...you figured it out."

"For several reasons that are nigh impossible to recreate," Narcissa sighed. "For one, I was actively searching the reasons behind our bond. Two, I did so in the heart of my family's land – and our magic is at its strongest here. And three…" she hesitated a moment, but then soldiered on, "and three, this is the second time I used the ritual because of you."

"The second time?" Hermione glanced up, surprised. Narcissa had mentioned she'd done it once before, but she had never explained why. "Because of me?"

"Yes," Narcissa's said in a sombre tone, her eyes locked onto images of the past. "It's a story that goes back to the war, and it was a dark time," she continued. "But that's a pitiful excuse for my actions. If only I'd been braver, Selena. Maybe everything would have been different. Maybe she wouldn't have…" Narcissa trailed off, blinking rapidly. Hermione sat still, riveted, waiting. She didn't even object to being called a name that wasn't hers. She wanted to...she _needed_ to know.

"Like I said, Adriana Selwyn was my best friend in school," Narcissa finally said, after sniffing and then quickly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "And even before that. We grew up together, played together. Both sorted into Slytherin, both graduated with such grand plans. We had our fights over the years, of course – what sort of friends don't? – but we always made up, holding each other through all the troubles that seem so important when you're young. She was like a sister to me; no, even closer than a sister, and we thought that nothing could tear us apart…"

"But something did?" Hermione prompted, after the silence in the room stretched. "What was it?"

"What causes the downfall of any proud witch?" Narcissa chuckled ruefully, her voice full of sadness and regret. "A boy. He was from Gryffindor, and had these crystal blue eyes and curly hair the shade of golden wheat. She fell in love with him, and not just any kind of love, but the fairytale, head-over-heels kind, and so when he asked her to move in with him, she couldn't refuse, even though they weren't even wed. It was a shock to all."

"A shock?" By this point, Hermione was fully drawn into the story. "Why?"

"Well, she never told anyone of her affections," Narcissa explained. "Not even me. This was after we graduated Hogwarts – we were in our twenties by then, and I'd already married Lucius – and she was engaged to another. One who was chosen by her parents and was of the... _proper_ sort."

"The proper sort…" Hermione echoed. "So, what? Adriana fell in love with a...muggleborn, is that it?"

"Oh, no! Far worse than that. He was a blood-traitor! His whole family, in fact, just like the Weasleys." The scorn in Narcissa's voice was unmistakable, making Hermione bristle. The Weasley family had been nothing but kind to her and Harry.

"And so you abandoned your best friend?" she challenged frostily. "All because she fell in love with someone you couldn't accept?"

Narcissa was quiet for some time, looking down to where her hands were clenched together, knuckles white. "I'm not proud of what I did," she finally answered. "But it was the way I was raised. My sister Andromeda married a muggleborn wizard, and I cut off all contact with her as well. She was disinherited, blasted off the family tree. And you have to understand," Narcissa raised her eyes, "that the times were different. The Dark Lord was rising to power, battle lines were being drawn! To be associated with muggleborns or blood-traitors...it painted a target on your back. I couldn't take that risk. So when Adriana told me that she was planning on abandoning her family in order to abscond with this _boy_ that would never be welcomed among our circles… I panicked. I was terrified! I knew she would be cast out, and if I remained her friend, then I would share the same fate, become a target too, as would my husband! So I left."

Narcissa's voice trembled. "I left her there, alone. The look in her eyes...the betrayal. She expected me to stick by her side, must have thought that our years of friendship meant something greater than just…" Narcissa broke off, taking a shuddering breath.

Hermione could feel her insides churning with anger. Adriana was a stranger to her, and yet she could emphasize with her plight. Hermione had experienced her own fair share of hatred and intolerance, much of it from the son of the woman lying across from her now. Still, she had to know more, to follow this story to wherever it led. So she quelled her urge to lash out and asked, "What happened then?"

"I never talked to Adriana again," Narcissa responded after taking several breaths. "She kept owling, begging me to reconsider, asking me to meet her, but I never responded. I burnt the letters, sent the owls away. Over time, they became rare and then stopped coming altogether. I thought I'd never see her again...but fate, that cruel mistress, had other plans."

Narcissa reached for the glass and took a sip before continuing. Her hands, Hermione noticed, were slightly shaking.

"By that time, the war had gathered momentum. Skirmishes were happening left and right between those who supported the Dark Lord and those who fought against him. Adriana and her boyfriend joined the fighting...on the side of The Order."

"The Order?"

"The Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore's henchmen. She fought with them, next to the parents of some of your friends: the Potters, the Longbottoms, the Weasleys, and others. It must have been tough for her; a lone Slytherin among the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. I know she didn't share their ideology either; she wasn't particularly tolerant. She joined because of her love for _that boy._ She followed him. The irony is that he broke up with her, I heard. Found someone else. She must have been devastated, but, by then, it was too late for her to back out. Without the Order's protection, she would have been dead within a day, but as it turned out, she wasn't safe there either."

"What happened?" Hermione asked, on the edge of her seat. Her heart beat rapidly.

"This is where my knowledge grows thin," Narcissa sighed. "I only know what I saw. It was in the summer…She came here, to the Manor. The elves woke me up, and I rushed down. She couldn't be seen here, and, despite everything, I didn't want her to die. But it was too late for that. She was covered in blood. I tried to stifle the bleeding, to cast healing charms, but it was all for naught. She held my hand, pulling me close, until my ear was only an inch from her lips. She told me...she told me she had a daughter. I said she needed help, that I would call someone, but she just shook her head. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. I asked who did this to her. She said it was The Order."

"But why?!" Hermione exclaimed. "She was fighting on their side!"

"I don't know," Narcissa answered sadly. "She never explained or named any names. She just kept saying that she had a daughter, and that I needed to protect her. That someone was hunting them – the Selwyns. That I needed to keep her daughter's existence secret. She made me promise…" Narcissa gulped, "She made me promise that I would guard her, keep her safe, look after her, as if she were my own. And I couldn't deny her that. I swore it. On my blood and my magic, I swore to her that I would."

"Forming the bond…"

Narcissa nodded.

"And then?"

"And then she died. Right there, in my arms. My best friend, who I hadn't seen in years. Lucius came down. He saw her, helped me carry her body. We couldn't take her to your family plot, so we buried her here, on the grounds. We left a marker near the grave, a small one. No one could know. And that was that. She was gone, and the world just...went on. No one mentioned her name or asked about her, no obituary was published. Like she disappeared, and no one cared. Just me. But what did that matter?"

Narcissa fell silent, wiping her eyes again. The skin around them had turned red, standing out on pale skin. Hermione couldn't say anything either. Her throat had locked up, the story and fate of Adriana – her biological mother – clenching around her heart. It was maybe five minutes later that she finally asked in a hoarse voice, "But you didn't find me, did you? You didn't carry out your oath?"

" _I tried._ " Narcissa said it with such conviction that Hermione knew it to be the truth. "I tried _everything._ But Adriana died before saying where you were! Soon after, the Dark Lord was banished by your friend Harry Potter, and we just didn't have the clout to open any investigation. Lucius was _an inch_ away from Azkaban! On top of that was my promise to keep Adriana's daughter – you, Selena – not only safe, but _secret._ You see, no one knew my friend had given birth; no one had even been aware of her pregnancy! How Adriana kept this hidden, I don't know. But she was an exceptional witch; smart, resourceful. If anyone could have pulled it off, it was her. So I couldn't exactly shout about you from the rooftops, could I? Instead, I tried to ask around stealthily, cast a net of inquiries. Yet all my attempts yielded nothing. Weeks went by, and I began to grow desperate. So I attempted the ritual. I knew it was dangerous, but I felt I had no other choice. I went in...and it nearly killed me. Two months I lay in a coma. When I came to, Lucius told me that I had to stop. He said that Adriana had probably hallucinated the whole thing, and that I had a son to care for, and a husband who needed me. What could I say? He was right. So I stopped looking, and Adriana slowly faded from my mind…"

"But then you saw me at King's Cross," Hermione exclaimed. "You felt the bond! Shouldn't it have been obvious to you who I was even then?"

Narcissa shook her head. "I couldn't remember," she answered. "I _physically couldn't._ When I said that Adriana faded from my mind, I meant that literally. My promise to her, your existence, why I attempted the ritual – those memories became blocked. Adriana claimed that someone was hunting your family, and, in retrospect, that might have been the truth. Her parents – your grandparents, Selena – died under strange circumstances several months before her. She must have feared that you were a target as well, so, knowing her, she must have done everything to protect you. Including getting access to such magic that inadvertently caused even me to forget."

"Then she was the one to capture the Grangers?" Hermione asked, after mulling over Narcissa's words. "The one who compelled them to care for me?"

Narcissa hesitated.

"What is it?" Hermione pressed, and Narcissa relented.

"Like I said, your mother was an exceptional witch," she cautiously stated. "And she certainly cast some of the wards and spells near your home, but…"

"But?"

"Adriana was twenty-six when she died. She was brilliant, but the type of magic surrounding you...it was miles above anything she could have achieved. Those misdirection spells, compulsion charms that outlasted her by over a decade? Magic that is still actively preventing anyone from associating you with her, even though you're almost a carbon copy?! I've never even heard of that. This type of spellcasting would require decades of skill and experience, research and power! She simply didn't have the time to learn all of that. In fact, there are only two wizards I can think of that would even be _capable_ of such magic."

"Albus Dumbledore," Hermione instantly guessed.

"That's one," Narcissa nodded.

"And the other?"

Again, the Malfoy matriarch hesitated.

"The other?" Hermione harshly pressed.

Narcissa's shoulders slumped, signalling her defeat. "The Dark Lord," she exhaled. "Considering that Adriana was running away from The Order when she died, I believe it was the Dark Lord's magic that concealed you."

And with those words, Hermione's world – already teetering on edge – came crashing down.

* * *

 **End of Part I.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Part II**

* * *

 **Chapter Six: Operation Reformation**

There are moments in life that shape a person's destiny. They often come in the form of a choice, although, usually, it's an unwitting one ‒ where a run-of-the-mill, seemingly inconsequential decision, like when to leave for work or school, suddenly becomes the turning point of someone's future. Looking back, it's easy to pinpoint these little twists in time; they become so clear, so strikingly obvious in our minds, that, perplexed and stunned at our own unyielding capacity for ignorance, we question: _how could we have not seen this happening? If only I'd…_ A list of what-ifs usually follows, pointless ponderings hounded by pointless regrets. The overlooked is in the past already, irreversible. Unchangeable.

However, there is also a different kind of moment: one in which the person is aware of its gravity and comprehends the consequences of his actions. He stands upon the crossroads of fate, ready to cast aside his shackles, break the golden thread, and take his first step into the unknown, but it is _his unknown,_ his by will and not decree of providence!

Such a duty fell to our heroine, a girl with two names. With a portion of her past revealed and only murky waters ahead, Hermione had to choose what future to strive for. It really was a pity she hadn't taken divination. Tea leaves might have helped.

In the absence of the third eye, however, Hermione fell back on her regular strengths. So what if she was a pureblood, and her family was gone, and she was with the Malfoys? So what if there was potentially a cold-blooded killer out to murder her? So what if he or she had scared Adriana so much that she had used Lord Voldemort to hide her own daughter, because The Order, apparently, wanted her dead. So what! All that information could be categorized, collated and combined into a neat series of parchments with lists, diagrams and even the occasional graph to find the optimal solution to her sudden predicament.

Hermione set to task with fervor, blocking trauma with long hours of work. Eventually, she narrowed down her options to three:

 **One:** to reveal her identity and leave the Malfoys, in the hope that Dumbledore and the Ministry would aid and protect her.

 **Two:** stay with the Malfoys, but confide in Dumbledore and her friends.

 **Three:** tell no one and remain where she was, using time and Malfoy resources to quietly dig into the mystery of her past.

Each option had its pros and cons. Hermione mapped them out in blue and red, respectively.

Option one, going public with her identity, garnered a lot of red. It offered no guarantee of answers and simultaneously put her at high risk, negating all of Adriana's efforts to hide her. Whomever she had feared ‒ was that individual still out there, just as intent on wiping out the Selwyn bloodline? Hermione had no answers. Not yet, anyway.

Besides ‒ and, most importantly ‒ Hermione _didn't want_ to go public. She _didn't want_ to adopt the mantle of a resurrected pureblood. She wanted to pass the year as Hermione Granger, bushy-haired bookworm, muggleborn know-it-all. She wanted some normalcy ‒ or, at least, the illusion of it.

Option two was tempting. Dumbledore, with his kindly disposition and twinkling eyes, seemed like the obvious solution. Surely he would help? But then, as Narcissa pointed out, was he not the founder of The Order, the same organization Adriana had implicated in her own death? Why had they turned on her? What if Dumbledore was the cause? And would he really view Hermione the same, once he learned she'd been concealed by the Dark Lord's magic?

Hermione argued against this logic, both with Narcissa and with herself, but a worm of niggling doubt crawled into her mind. If Dumbledore _was,_ in fact, somehow involved, then it was doubtful he'd admit it. Hermione would only tip him ‒ and whoever murdered Adriana ‒ off. No, if she really wanted to discover what had happened, then she had to do this herself: quietly and stealthily.

And that left option three: The Malfoys.

Resolutely, Hermione squared her shoulders and made her choice. Somewhere far off, the loom hitched, and a single golden thread tore away, setting off on an uncharted course. Hermione knew everything would be different now.

Oh, Merlin help her.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 ** _One year later;_**

 ** _End of Year Three at Hogwarts_**

Hermione's school trunk hit the ground with an audible _thunk,_ making Crookshanks to meow in disapproval. Hermione, flopping on her bed with a scowl, ignored his disgruntled stare. The end of the year had been _horrible._ Ron's fat, stupid, terribly ugly and balding rat had once again disappeared, and who did he blame? Hermione. That seemed to be the theme of the year, at any rate. Whether it was missing rats or potentially dangerous Firebolts that needed to be confiscated _for Harry's own safety!_ it was all Hermione's fault.

Hermione, her bushy tresses fanned out over the covers, scowled again, recalling the end-of-year row when Ron had discovered his precious Scabbers was missing. Missing, oh, the tragedy! The cat must have caught him, and why couldn't Hermione just control her filthy, lice-infested creature?!

"He's the filthy, lice-infested one, not you," Hermione muttered angrily as Crookshanks jumped on the bed to tilt his head under her hands, demanding attention. "You didn't eat his rat, did you, Crooks?" she cooed, spitefully adding: "And even if you did, well, then I wouldn't blame you. Thing was half-dead anyway."

Crookshanks, whose purring had reached the operating volume of a small motorboat engine, gave an affirmative meow and then solidified his stance on the issue by licking his chops. Hermione's spirits lifted at his antics, and she chuckled, tracing her fingers through his fur while letting her eyes roam. A year ago, when she had first arrived, this room, with its pastel walls and carefully-made four-poster bed, had possessed all the personality of a hotel suite: clean, opulent, but distinctively barren, obvious to anyone that it was merely used to house temporary guests, and not a place where someone actually _lived._ Now, with stacks of bookcases and boy band posters on the walls, a few picture frames next to quills and magical trinkets on an elegant mahogany desk, rolls of parchment, and old copies of _The Prophet,_ there was no doubt about it: this room was _Hermione's._

Alongside one of the walls, adjacent to the bed, stood a medium-sized vanity. Initially Narcissa's addition, Hermione had let it remain after discovering that she wasn't quite as adverse to the idea of beauty products as she had initially claimed. With proper preparation, even her hair could be wrangled into a sleek, sophisticated twist, although usually Hermione didn't bother.

On the opposite side of the room was what could only be described as a jumble of muggle products heaped together in no particular fashion. There was a TV, a desktop PC, a toaster, microwave, music player, and an ancient karaoke machine, among other things. None of it worked, of course (just like Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor had too much magic for muggle electronics to operate), but Hermione hadn't purchased them for use ‒ she had done it purely out of spite. It simply _killed_ Lucius Malfoy to know that not only had his stately, pure and _magical_ home been tainted by filthy muggle consumerist goods, but that he couldn't do anything about it. Hermione's room was _Hermione's,_ and, as long as she didn't cross any extremes, she had broad authority on its interior. Narcissa had been adamant in defending her independence. So Hermione was free to fill her room with muggle crap (some of which she planned on handing out later to Arthur Weasley), and if sometimes she left it dressed in clothes or jewelry of muggle origin (making sure to drop a comment about it at the dinner table), well, what could you say...oops?

The cherry on top was that all of it had been purchased with Lucius' own money. Well, technically his money, because the state of Hermione's finances was a curious affair.

When the Granger home had disappeared (literally) into thin air, Hermione was left with only her school trunk, which contained her books, clothes and a whopping sum of one Galleon, seven Sickles and thirteen Knuts. Good enough for a decent meal, but a little short of the amount necessary to finish her education. And while Narcissa was more than willing to provide for Hermione ‒ hell, her oath practically obligated her to ‒ Hermione couldn't help but feel disinclined to live on Lucius' money.

Fortunately, this is where the Selwyn card entered into play.

As Narcissa explained, looking a little misty-eyed, the Selwyns had never disowned their only child, and so, with their passing, Adriana had inherited the entire estate. Now, its properties, gold and other valuable assets all belonged to Hermione.

Once again, _technically._

Practically, in order to claim her inheritance, Hermione would have to jump through a number of legal hoops, involving notaries, the Ministry, and Gringotts. Her identity would be leaked quicker than food disappeared down Ron's insatiable gob, and, believe me, that boy could set world records if he just set his mind to it.

So while the Selwyn vaults were inaccessible, Hermione did own them, which allowed her to put forth the idea of a loan. Narcissa hadn't really understood what Hermione was talking about at first; after all, she would gladly just gift whatever sum required, but Hermione had refused to budge, eventually forcing Narcissa to agree, even though the older woman considered the whole idea a silly flight of fancy and was quite confident that by the time Hermione did gain access to her family fortune, the whole matter would be forgotten.

So, two weeks after Hermione's arrival at Malfoy Manor, an account in her name was opened at one of London's main banks. 50,000 pounds were transferred into it from one of the Malfoy shell companies in the muggle realm. Hermione took a cashier's check for one-fifth of the total sum and deposited it in Gringotts. The goblins sniffed at muggle papers, but the cardinal rule of goblin banking is that money is money, and its origin is of second-hand importance.

They converted the check into Galleons, giving Hermione a key to a personal vault, and that was that.

The roundabout manner of transfer was actually a necessity. As Hermione discovered, goblins had the unique ability to trace Galleons, which would undoubtedly lead to questions if they discovered that a sizable lump of Malfoy gold had ended up in a muggleborn's vault. It was better to avoid such attention.

And so, with the money "on loan", Hermione was able to buy whatever suited her. And, while most of her purchases were school or study-related, sometimes she just couldn't resist taunting Lucius by bringing in muggle goods into his precious, pureblood home.

Hermione had been lost in her musings for half an hour already, and the shadow from the pair of birch trees outside had already reached her feet when the door suddenly opened, letting one Draco Malfoy barge in. Not a very pleasant surprise.

"Boundaries, Malfoy!" she yelled, lifting her head off the bed. "Remember when we talked about boundaries?! Do you know what knocking is?"

"My home," he countered blasély, flopping down on a seat. "My boundaries."

"First of all, not your home, but your _parents'_ home, and secondly: what if I was changing?!"

Draco gasped, as if the thought had never occurred to him. "You have a point," he agreed with mock horror. "I would have been scarred for life."

Hermione glowered at her former nemesis...now downgraded to sporadic headache. If anyone, during her first two years of Hogwarts, would have ever suggested that she would be on speaking terms with _Draco Malfoy,_ then she would have first laughed and then suggested a prompt visit to the hospital wing to assess mental deficiency. But fate works in mysterious ways, and is, apparently, quite the joker.

Draco's attitude towards her had changed significantly...but not for any decent reason. As Lucius succinctly put it: "Thank Merlin and all the Founders that my son hasn't been bested by a mudblood all these years." Because _that_ was the crux of the issue: it was all right for Draco to occasionally underperform, just not to _lowborn scum._

When she realized this, Hermione actually grew to pity the young Slytherin. A large part of Draco's nasty personality was, no doubt, caused by his inability to meet his father's expectations, which had caused immense stress. But now that Hermione's blood was equal to his, it was suddenly all right. A great burden had been lifted, the world was right once more! That last summer, Draco had actually smiled at her. Once. _Smiled._ It was the creepiest thing she had ever seen.

"Granger. Graaaangggeeeer. Hey, Granger!" Malfoy was yelling, meanwhile, trying to get her attention. _Granger._ Hermione had insisted on that name. She couldn't accept being called Selena, even in private. Selena was...someone else. Not her.

Besides, having Malfoy calling her Selwyn was dangerous, lest he trip up and do it by habit in front of witnesses.

" _Earth to Grannngeeerrrrr!"_

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she finally snapped. Crookshanks hissed from her side.

"I want the coins," he replied.

"The tokens, you mean? And why would I just hand them over?"

"Because you promised," he quickly responded in a smug tone. "You said if I didn't antagonize Potter or Weasley for the last month, then you'd give me enough coins to last the whole summer."

Hermione didn't look pleased. "Oh, yeah?" she countered, sitting up on the bed and crossing her arms under her breasts, "And that's what you did, is it? No antagonizing? And what would you call the taunting in the potions' room right before exams?"

Draco's smirk suddenly slipped away.

"And the jelly-legs jinx on Ron," Hermione continued hotly, "you think I don't know it was you? And then there was the stupid gum you enchanted to stick to Harry's shoes! And the words about Ron's family ‒ we can't all be rich, you know! And‒"

"Oh, come off it, Granger!" Draco exclaimed, waving his hands. "Are you really going to defend Weasley? From what I heard, you two had quite the row up in the Gryffindor common room. People saw you sitting on the train later ‒ _alone."_

"And that's none of your business!"

"What'd he do ‒ get on you about exams? Said you should have helped him more? Or did he‒"

" _Shut up, Malfoy!"_ Draco was nowhere near the real reason of the fight, but bringing it up brought back the hurt she felt, and it must have leaked into her voice, because Draco stopped talking immediately.

"It was just some fun," he whined, after a moment's silence.

"A bully's fun is not his victim's!" Hermione retorted, but was secretly glad at the change of subject.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, Potter was just as bad, Weasley too. C'mon, Granger," he raised his voice into a pleading cadence that worked wonders on his mother. "Crabbe and Goyle have been bugging me for weeks. They wanna try too. You can't say no! Gimme the coins‒tokens, whatever! _You promised!_ "

Hermione huffed, staring at his begging eyes. She knew he'd ask, plead, and later move on to threats and bargaining if she wouldn't oblige, but it was in her interest to hand the tokens over anyway. They were, after all, the crowning triumph of what Hermione personally called _Operation Reformation._

Operation Reformation was dreamed up over the past summer, and it was a multi-pronged attack on Malfoy biases. Its goal was to introduce the Malfoys to elements of muggle culture, change their views on blood supremacy, and get them to adopt a more tolerant stance toward muggles and muggleborns. For months, Hermione had failed miserably in her efforts...until one glorious moment of unsurpassed brilliance (at least, Hermione thought so) over winter break.

Hermione and Draco had returned to Malfoy Manor for the holidays. Things between them were as frosty as the weather; while Draco had mellowed somewhat, he was still a pig-headed brat and acted accordingly, constantly provoking Harry and Ron, and then there was that whole business with Buckbeak, who Hermione was able to save from execution only after pleading for his life to Narcissa, using the same tone of voice Draco did when he really wanted something.

Narcissa was surprisingly easy to manipulate that way.

Nevertheless, despite her displeasure with the Malfoy heir, Hermione forged ahead with Operation Reformation, and one of her ideas had _struck gold._ Malfoy was easy to goad, and she had used that to get him to come to the muggle world with her. He'd done so just to prove to her face that everything of muggle-make was inferior and _nothing_ could possibly change his mind on the issue. Unfortunately for him, his positions had crumbled completely when they had arrived at their destination, and Hermione still felt smug about her victory.

After all, Hermione had thought long and hard about how to _wow_ a wizard with muggle life. Sports went out the window (soccer and cricket aren't exactly enthralling to someone capable of flight), and so did movie theaters (too many muggles for a first outing), as well as various cultural destinations (who cared about lifeless art when you can make a painting that talks?).

So what did that leave?

An arcade.

And it was a rout.

From the second Draco touched the first machine, he was hooked. He spent two hours on the pac-man game. Three more blasting away spaceships on _Alien Invader,_ and, by the time Hermione was ready to die of boredom (he insisted she watch), actually managed a high score. When they had to leave, he wanted to stay. Then, on the next day, he demanded they go back.

You see, he needed Hermione. Draco liked the games...but he didn't want to interact with muggles, which extended to the cashier who sold the machine tokens you needed to play in the first place.

Well, it was a start, Hermione supposed. Eventually, Draco would have to buy his own tokens, and that meant (oh, shudder) he would have to interact with a muggle. The plan was for that initial exchange to grow into something more meaningful, where Draco re-evaluated his world views to become less of a git.

But, until that moment came, Hermione shamelessly used the tokens to bargain. That was how, for example, she was able to get Draco to help her defend Hagrid's position as gamekeeper, although the half-giant was still suspended from his short-lived teaching post for endangering students, which, Hermione grudgingly agreed, made sense: after all, he did commonly underestimate the dangers of wild magical creatures, often forgetting that his pupils were not, like him, the size of a truck. Hermione was trying to get Hagrid to take teaching classes and then reapply for his position.

"Wait," she said suddenly, tearing back to reality after realizing what Draco had just said, "you told _Crabbe and Goyle about this?"_

"Not about you, _Selwyn_ ," he waved her concerns away, unconcerned. "I'm not daft. Just about the arcade. They can't wait to play."

"But then…" Hermione paused, "I wouldn't be able to escort you."

" _Escort?"_ Draco puffed up like a baboon. "Wow, Granger, you really have a big head! Not everything revolves around you. I can go to the arcade by myself or with Crabbe and Goyle. That way," he added smugly, "I can have them buy the tokens."

 _That little…_ Hermione was actually a little stunned at the ingenious way he found to avoid speaking to his first muggle, but, more importantly, a little note of triumph had begun singing in her soul. _More pureblood, supremacist Slytherins were going to a purely muggle location! Exposure was the first step towards change!_ Operation Reformation might just have more far-reaching consequences than she'd ever imagined!

Hermione didn't let any of these thoughts show, however. "Oh, I'm big-headed, you say?" She sounded spiteful, and that wasn't good. Draco still needed her stash. "Well, then I suppose I'll just keep these tokens to myself and my big‒"

"No, no, no! C'mon, Granger, I meant it in the nicest possible way." Draco's strained, toothy smile was far from convincing, but staring at it for a long time would invite a migraine, so Hermione snapped: "Then you never barge into my room without knocking!"

"Of course," he nodded quickly.

"And you be nicer to Harry!"

"Mhhm!" He looked just a like a kid willing to swear anything for a new toy ‒ except, of course, kids never uphold such promises.

"And say 'muggles are good!'"

"Now don't push it!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but got up to rummage around in her trunk to find the bag of tokens. Annoying as he was, Draco leaned over her shoulder to look, and she had to shoo him off, lest he glimpse her underclothes ‒ or worse ‒ her gradesheet. Snape had been a git, as usual, marking her down for some trivial nonsense at the end of the year and thus marring her perfect Outstandings with one 'Exceeds Expectations'.

"Here you go," she said, handing him the pouch. The tokens joyfully clanked within, making Draco's face light up with glee. "Aha! I knew you couldn't resist my charm!" he hollered triumphantly, snatching it out her hands and then dashing to the door. "And I didn't mean any of the promises about Potter!" he yelled already from the other side. "You know he's a freak, Granger! You know it!" His voice disappeared in the distance, cackling madly, and Hermione just sighed. What had she expected ‒ a thank you? A modicum of civility? Yeah, don't hold your breath.

At least it was peaceful now. Peace ‒ that was good.

Hermione sighed again and slowly began unpacking her trunk, taking out her clothes and books and quills until her hands suddenly touched something that made her pause. She sat still for a full minute, just looking at the object with a strange expression, something that fused sadness and anger and a strange sort of longing all into one.

Hermione was quiet for so long that the noises coming from her bed, where Crooks had been busy grooming himself, stopped too. The half-kneazle, sensing turmoil in his human's soul, glanced over and then meowed ‒ a little uncertainly, as if he wanted to help, but didn't quite know how. Hermione didn't hear him. The yearbook in her hands ‒ and it was a yearbook, and old one, but carefully cared for ‒ was already open and turned to a page that had obviously been looked at many times before.

There, in a pretty frame, a pair of girls waved. Dressed in Slytherin green, one had pale-blond hair and sharp features that would mellow with age ‒ a young and carefree Narcissa Black. To her left, with locks of bushy hair, a speckle of freckles 'round her nose, and a deviously impish smile, stood a young woman whose tragic future had no bearing on that particular moment.

Adriana looked like she had won the world, and she was so, _so_ happy.

The yearbook was a gift from Narcissa. She'd given it to Hermione right before they departed for King's Cross at the beginning of the year, telling her to glance through it in private. "It's the only thing I have left of her," she had said, sadly. "Except you."

The first look-through had been a shock and vanquished any lingering doubts Hermione held regarding her heritage, because looking at Adriana was like staring into a mirror. There were the same brows and bushy hair and curve of the jaw. The same nose. Even their expressions were similar. It made it...strange. Hermione had spent the entire year learning about the war and The Order and the Selwyns, but she always kept returning to this yearbook, flipping through its pages to stare at what was, undoubtedly, her mother.

Sometimes, she wondered what her life would have been like had Adriana lived. Would she have grown up as a pureblood? Held the same ideals and had actual friends? And what would their relationship be like? Would they have loved the same books, cared for the same characters? Would Adriana have read her stories at night, tales of beasts and magical creatures?

Inevitably, such thoughts became heralds of unbridled fury. It wasn't fair ‒ none of it! Why had she been deprived of such a past? Why had Adriana been forced to give up her future ‒ and a chance to know her own daughter? Who was to blame?!

...And how would she make them pay?

Lost in her feelings, Hermione didn't notice the shadow that covered the sun. A haughty owl, brown, with silver-tipped wings and an ear broken in half, flew in from the north, rapping the glass with its beak. Hermione jerked and, with a surprised ' _oh'_ , dropped the yearbook, retrieving it at the last second. She hugged it to her chest, glancing up to glare at the window, where the owl perched, hooting impatiently.

She'd never seen it before.

Hermione carefully stowed her prized possession back in her trunk and walked to the window. The glass opened at her touch, letting the owl, a letter in its claws, glide in. Hermione didn't rush to open it. She took a moment, gazing out of her room, a brush of gold on her skin.

Her eyes, in their depths a strange plea, roamed over vistas, vast, wild, free, and somewhere there, in the distance, where the clouds the clouds chased, flocks of white soared aloft, and then fell and then dropped, like the fruit of a tree; ...and something clenched in her heart.

For a brief, crazy and unthinkable moment, Hermione wanted to leap out untethered, spreading her arms to catch the wind, letting it carry her far, far away to the golden horizon and beyond. This whole year, she had put on a brave face and shouldered her burdens, keeping herself busy in order to avoid feeling too much, but it was hard. Hard to lie to her friends, to be worried all the time, to feel like an outsider, like she didn't belong.

Hermione's breath hitched, coming out in a shudder, and she shut her eyes, closing them tight to ward away the host of fears and insecurities, chanting to herself that it would all be alright, that, with time, all wounds would heal.

Ten seconds later, when she turned around, not a hint of turmoil traced her features. She appeared calm, collected.

"Let's see what you brought then," she said, and there was steel in her eyes.

The owl cocked its head and offered its leg. The letter hung from it, a herald of things to come. Hermione read it once, and then read it again. When she was finished, she had a worried look, and glanced up quickly to inspect the owl that had brought it more closely.

But her effort was in vain.

The window was open, and the owl was already gone.

* * *

 **"Where the clouds the clouds chased" originates from George Meredith's 'Dirge in the Woods'.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Occlumency**

The letter was a summons, and Hermione ended up ignoring it. The author ‒ someone going by the name of Rosoled Demiburg ‒ was promising answers to 'the most noble Selwyn heir'. They wanted to meet down in Knockturn Alley, but said that it was preferable for 'the heir' to come alone.

Ha.

Hermione wasn't an idiot. Every word of the letter, full of pretentious phrasings and written in an oily female script, smelled like a trap. She didn't know any stats on crime, but she wouldn't be surprised if unescorted teenage girls happened to occasionally disappear 'round Knockturn Alley ‒ it was just that sort of place. Also, a few careful queries revealed that no person by the name of 'Rosoled Demiburg' existed; it was obviously a pseudonym. So Hermione stuffed the letter in her trunk, somewhere it wouldn't be found. Rosoled left an option to contact her; it was worth looking into later.

Hermione didn't share the letter with the Malfoys for two reasons. Firstly, she didn't trust Lucius. She knew Narcissa would never harm her, but that obligation didn't extend to her husband, and Hermione was still uncertain of his motivations. Secondly, Narcissa's words about secrets echoed in her mind. Secrets were power, and now Hermione had a little one of her own.

With the cryptic letter out of sight, Hermione returned to the issue of her past.

Investigating it had quickly turned into a time consuming hobby. Last summer, Hermione had even been forced to owl Professor McGonagall with a request to drop Divination and Muggle Studies, because taking a full set of classes _and_ doing research on her personal project would have been a strain even for her. McGonagall had seemed relieved in her reply. Apparently, arranging Hermione's academic schedule had turned into a nightmare, and she was glad her star pupil had decided to unburden herself.

So from the very first day in Hogwarts, Hermione spent nights holed up in the library...which wasn't unusual, at least for her. But now, instead of reading ahead in Charms or adding that extra foot of parchment to a Transfiguration assignment, Hermione was learning all she could about Voldemort's rise to power, the war, and the families involved.

It was then that she realized that Adriana had known Harry's parents.

It came as a shock, although it made perfect sense ‒ she'd just never thought about it before. Adriana had fought for The Order, and so had Lily and James Potter. Hermione couldn't stop staring at Harry for a week after finding out. She thought about their unlikely connection; about his parents...and hers.

Had they been friends? Acquaintances? Or...were Lily and James the ones that hunted Adriana down? The ones that had killed her? That particular thought haunted Hermione for months, as there was neither a way to confirm nor deny it, because finding information on The Order was an arduous task; after all, it was a _secret_ society. Whatever snippets of information she gained from old newspaper articles were laughably scarce.

The Malfoys couldn't help her in that regard either, for obvious reasons. However, they did provide a wealth of information on other matters. Over the summer months, Narcissa shared what she could of Adriana and their childhood days, telling stories over tea. She also forced Hermione to study the pureblood families, their histories and customs. By summer's end, Hermione could recite all of Britain's purebloods and knew to what extent they'd been involved in the war and on which side.

Adriana's boyfriend ‒ the one she'd fallen in love with ‒ hadn't been a part of that group, to her surprise. His name was Gerrard Marron, and he was French. Narcissa showed Hermione several of his pictures, but looking at him made the young witch feel nothing. With Adriana, there was an immediate spark, a connection, but at Gerrard's profile she just stared like at any stranger. Oh, he was beautiful, Hermione had to admit: curly blond hair and striking blue eyes ‒ veela genes, no doubt ‒ but there was no resemblance between them. None at all!

The Marrons, despite their commitment to The Order, had escaped Britain sometime before Voldemort's fall. _What else to expect from the French,_ Hermione thought with distaste and declined Narcissa's offer to contact them. That was always a possibility for later.

Currently, Hermione was working on a timeline, plotting out every fact she could cross-reference with various sources to gain a broader understanding of wartime events. The goal was for her efforts to translate into tangible reasons explaining A) why Adriana had been killed by The Order and B) who she'd hidden Hermione from. Unfortunately, large portions of the timeline were still empty; Hermione hoped she could fill them out when she visited the Weasleys this summer. Everyone was excited for the Quidditch World Cup, but Hermione was just eager to see how much she could suss out from Arthur and Molly. Still, even before that, there was much to do: books to read, _Daily Prophet_ articles to analyze, court transcripts to wade through. You never knew where that little kernel of victorious knowledge would come from.

So, tugging her hair into a messy bun, Hermione set to work.

 **. . . .**

The days passed by easily. It was Hermione's second summer at Malfoy Manor and, truth be told, she kind of liked it. It was hard not to, in fact. The Manor was grand, ornate, and so large that it was feasible to avoid its residents altogether, unless prior arrangements were made. Some days, Hermione saw the Malfoys only at dinner, which were a family affair. Hermione would usually only trade pleasantries at the start, but by the second course, one of the adults would inquire about her studies, and she'd leap at the subject, chattering away.

You see, in addition to learning about Adriana and the war, Hermione also spent long hours perusing the Manor's libraries, both shocked and thrilled at what the Malfoys had to offer. What a collection it was! There were firsthand accounts of ancient magical phenomena (written on tablets, bark, or, in some gruesome cases, human skin); rare volumes on magical creatures (Hagrid would kill for these!); publications delving into almost unstudied areas of magic, and...well, this list could continue for hours, and Hermione had access to everything!

But there was a particular subject that came to fascinate her above all others. In between the hundreds of books and manuscripts and translations were tomes on magic blackest and foul ‒ never hidden, but not placed into the limelight either. Unlike Hogwarts, none of it was restricted. Hermione had actually gasped when she found her first one. No wonder Draco had been able to summon a snake ‒ a spell more fit for a fourth year ‒ in Lockhart's dueling club. He'd grown up with direct access to such magic! And she shouldn't...it would be reprehensible to...there was a reason such magic wasn't taught...it was evil, abhorrent, something to be cast aside, not learned...

Right?

...Right?

Hermione had battled with herself for a whole week. A week filled with doubts and second guessing; a desire to touch, but apprehensive of the burn; of moral arguments of whether magical spells could be evil by themselves, or if it was the caster's intent that made them so.

The week had been slow. For Hermione, these dark tomes had turned into the proverbial fruit, sitting right there, rich with temptation and ready to be plucked. What mysteries did they hold? What secrets could she sneak from their pages?

Prudence fought insatiable curiosity, and curiosity won. The allure of forbidden knowledge was just too great, too... _seductive._ Hermione found a number of justifications, of course: know thy enemy, and all that. Besides, Harry would need her knowledge. She'd just learn it to help him. Yes, precisely: she was doing this for him, her friend!

But later, falling asleep, Hermione briefly mused at how fitting it was that Malfoy Manor was home to snakes. It made the whole matter almost... _biblical._

The line is always hardest to cross. But once she was over it, Hermione never looked back. One tome on dark magic became two, two became four, and soon she didn't even bother keeping count.

Now, don't let me give you the wrong idea. It's not like every book she read provided details on ghastly rituals or how to sacrifice a virgin under the light of a full moon. Most books were actually theoretical exercises, written by bored aristocrats who fancied themselves true mages of the dark. They were full of meaningless drivel, holding nothing of value. Then there were tomes on practical application, but mostly minor things, like hexes to bald or cause boils, spells to sap strength or potions that would turn an unwilling man or woman more, let's say...susceptible to one's advances. These were actually very good study material, because they provided signs to watch for, methods of counteraction, applicable remedies, and generally just advanced Hermione's understanding on the subject.

And then there was the real thing.

These books were few, often hidden behind dusty, unremarkable covers. Their pages were anything but.

Hermione took an academic approach. She studied them carefully ‒ the parts she could understand, at least. This type of magic wasn't meant to be wielded by a fourth year...or any sort of student. In fact, Hermione suspected that very few witches or wizards would even be capable of casting such esoteric spells.

Hexes to rot marrow in bones. Torture curses. Methodologies on leeching pleasure from pain.

Almost everything was primed for unimaginable suffering.

One ritual showed how to separate a human from his own skin, while keeping the victim fully conscious. Another described the optimal method for exsanguination. A fetus torn from a virgin's womb, Hermione learned, could be used for the foulest of potions.

Hermione was disgusted. Abhorred. She became nauseous more than once, and yet...she couldn't stop. It was a strange, morbid fascination, forcing her to keep going, moving deeper and deeper, into the blackest of the black.

When a slip of the tongue at dinner had revealed what subjects she was studying, Lucius had become instantly intrigued. He'd asked leading questions...and Hermione had answered, enthralled by the discussion. He'd given her pointers, suggested what books to read next. She'd nodded her head like a good little girl.

Lucius was pleased. The Selwyn chit was showing potential. She was pureblooded, intelligent, and already proved malleable in certain areas...like the house-elf nuisance.

Oh, yes, Ms. Selwyn had been horrified at first. House-elves didn't deserve such abusive treatment, she'd exclaimed, eyes blazing. Corporal punishment is just medieval! Despicable and wrong!

Lucius had felt an urge to use caning to prove her wrong (his own father had been quite affectionate of the method), but managed to get ahold of himself. He instead approached the problem with the full cunning of an experienced Slytherin mind. Ms. Selwyn was stubborn in her morals, but he'd quickly pinpointed the girl's greatest weakness ‒ rationality. Her heart could say one thing, but she tended to follow her mind. Logic ruled her world, and that was exploitable.

So he'd been careful, patient. He'd sent her books on house-elf history and customs ‒ he knew she would read them. He'd mandated his own house-elves to behave appropriately in her presence: that is, to curb generosity and beg for punishment. Not that such orders went against their nature. They were masochistic creatures, by and large. Submissiveness and pain gave them pleasure, and their entire existence hedged on being bonded to a strong house. They yearned to serve; it bolstered their magic and longevity.

"Free elves" like Dobby ‒ and thoughts of that impudent, unloyal wretch inevitably brought fury ‒ were, statistically, an aberration. Ms. Selwyn, with her muggleborn, mistaken, egalitarian views, didn't see that. She considered all house-elves equal to humans, to be offered the same rights and protections. And that was where Lucius got her: by turning her own argument against her.

Her generalization was an act of oppression in and of itself, he argued. House-elf culture may seem alien and wrong, but it is distinctly _theirs._ Wouldn't it be the pinnacle of human arrogance to deny centuries of elvish history and culture simply because it didn't fit _someone's_ world views? Would Ms. Selwyn really cast away an elf's right to self-determination just because it made her queasy?

 _Was she really such a monster?_ Lucius had asked, hiding a cruel smirk behind mild astonishment, watching all of the girl's arguments die on her lips.

Because the logic was sound. Everything, and I mean _everything,_ from written sources to the house-elves themselves (and she'd spoken extensively to every single one in Malfoy Manor) ‒ had claimed the same thing: Dobby was abnormal. Winky was not. Clothes, for most elves, meant death.

And Hermione's mind, her brilliant, studious, _rational_ mind, had come to the only remaining conclusion: the purebloods were right.

Oh, that didn't mean Hermione advocated abuse, but now she didn't flinch every time a house-elf was slapped. Lucius celebrated his victory with a bottle of fine cognac. With the proper push, he knew the girl would eventually deliver a slap of her own. Violence was just desensitizing that way, and, besides, the girl was at her most impressionable age. Just like he'd said: _malleable._

But Hermione was blissfully unaware of his plans. The days turned into weeks as she continued her studies, mostly alone. Whenever the Malfoys had guests or were hosting a party, she would just quietly retreat to her room or the adjacent library, both of which had been warded for her privacy. And if that meant there wasn't a lot of human interaction, well...Hermione was used to that. She found that most books offered better company anyway.

Of course, there was still Draco to bother her. Despite any promises he'd made, he still barged in from time to time, just to...well, Hermione supposed 'hang out' was the proper term, although mostly Draco just pestered her with questions; bragged about how the Manor and all the Malfoy gold would once be his, giving him so much _authority (_ he emphasised the word _authority);_ and also kept going on and on about the arcade.

Crabbe and Goyle, as expected, had taken a liking to the place. With them, Draco was slowly working through all the games in the establishment, although his friends also doubled as bouncers, apparently. Draco used them to scare off the other muggle children. His pompous grin, when he'd boasted of that, had only incensed Hermione, who was busy learning a tongue-withering hex at the time. When she started voicing her reading material out loud, Draco had promptly turned green and changed subjects.

Her smirk was triumphant.

Towards the end of June, Narcissa summoned both children to her. It was time to learn Occlumency, she said.

Hermione knew about the esoteric branch of magic. Last summer before school, Narcissa had warned her about Dumbledore's ability to read minds, cautioning both children never to meet his eyes. She'd been studying the subject herself over the past year, and could now serve as a passable tutor.

Draco whined and whined, complaining that his time was already scarce (Hermione knew Lucius had him learning about Malfoy finances or something ‒ she was still uncertain exactly how the family actually made money) but, for once in Draco's life, his mother remained firm, putting her son into a mild state of shock, because he _always_ got what he wanted...from Narcissa, at least.

Hermione had taken great pleasure from his misfortune, and don't tell me that schadenfreude is a sin.

Learning Occlumency was really slow going. It wasn't some fact you could regurgitate from a book: it was a whole ritual, involving meditative practices and clearing of the mind and breathing exercises. A master Occlumens was capable of concealing his true thoughts without exposing his intent to do so, but achieving such a level of proficiency could take decades. Most just erected mental barriers or used special techniques to keep certain thoughts from their mind, which would be just enough to safeguard Hermione's identity should she be in danger of having her thoughts read.

Of course, the learning was mostly theoretical. There was no way to practically test their defences. Legilimens ‒ mind-readers ‒ were extremely rare. You could learn about the magic involved, but very few individuals could wield it. Still, Hermione, true to her nature, read up on the theory behind it. In mid-August, right before the Quidditch World Cup, she tested it as a joke on Draco during one of their study sessions.

Ten seconds later, she was on the ground, panting. Draco had gone white.

She'd seen his mind. Read his scrambled, panicking thoughts. Broken his defences like they were _nothing._

But that wasn't what scared her. Legilimens were rare because it was an inherited trait. Neither the Selwyns nor the Marrons had ever possessed it.

But then...who had?


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: The Perils of Being a Mind-Reader**

She broke into his mind like cold fire ‒ icy wisps of flame turning defences to ash ‒ and there was nothing he could do. He watched it happen in a kind of dazed wonder ‒ like one would marvel at an approaching tsunami. When the cresting waves engulfed him, they left no place to hide. Tethered by will and magic, she lodged inside his mind, and something wonderful happened.

For a brief second ‒ a moment that spilled into an eternity ‒ he felt _her,_ and two became one. She was full of fear, shock, and trepidatious wonder; her emotions mixed with his, tangling like vines in the wind. There were images that flashed before his eyes ‒ memories and feelings that didn't belong, that were _hers_ in origin. Stray thoughts entered his head; he gasped, and the air felt cold in his throat.

This whole experience lasted but a second, but to them it was endless, and yet it ended nonetheless.

When Granger tugged back, she left a void. He'd never known it existed before.

Granger jumped up from the ground ‒ when she'd fallen, he hadn't a clue ‒ and blushed heavily. Stammering an apology through quaking lips, she backed away. Her eyes, Draco noted, were wide, darting around the room with panic. "I didn't know I could," she continued to babble in the meantime. "Really, I didn't. I'm sorry. I have to go." She was stumbling towards the door on wobbly knees. "I need to ask…" She didn't need to finish the sentence; Draco knew where she was headed. He'd seen her intentions.

"Wait," he breathed, but the witch didn't listen, turning to leave.

Later, when Draco thought about this moment, he could never really explain _why_ he did it ‒ just that he did.

His hand shot out, halting her in her tracks. "You can't," he said hoarsely. His throat felt raw. "You can't tell my parents about...what you are. Father will kill you, Granger. You don't know it, but he will."

Hermione paled. She was breathing quickly, almost to the point of hyperventilation, sharp inhales that reverberated through the room, glancing off the windows. "How do you know?"

Draco wasn't sure what she was asking: whether it was how he was certain she was going to approach his parents, or why he knew his father would murder her. Mum wouldn't, but Father would find a way.

"Let's go take a walk," he said instead of answering. Even to his own ears, his tone sounded wary. "C'mon, Granger. Let's _go."_

She stared up at him. His extended hand hanged in the air for a moment, and then she reached out and grasped it with her own.

It was really soft, he noted. But that wasn't important.

 **. . . .**

As they walked down to the gardens, Draco tried to understand why he'd warned her. After all, it wasn't like they were friends. Sure, she'd become familiar in a way, but that didn't really mean anything. Besides, in addition to her bushy hair and insufferable know-it-all attitude (which hadn't changed one bit), she still insisted on remaining friends with Potter and Weasley, and if there were two people in the world that Malfoy _really_ detested, it was them. So then why did he…?

"You knew I was going to ask your parents about...what happened," Hermione broke up his meandering thoughts.

"Saw it in your head," he nodded, and then corrected himself. "I mean, saw it in your head in my head. While you were…" He frowned at the absurdity of it all, but Granger suddenly laughed.

"That was something, wasn't it?"

He really didn't know what to answer, so he just nodded again and then suddenly realized that this was the first time he had ever heard her laugh.

And he liked it. The sound, it was…

 _What am I thinking,_ thought Draco, shuddering. _She's Granger!_

Hermione didn't speak again until they had exited the Manor. She walked quietly, letting Draco take the lead, as they waded through the prim English gardens (manicured by the house-elf workforce) and entered alleys of linden trees. Here, in the shaded embrace, the scorching sun was but a dream, and the wind was warm, playful, rustling the crowns and flipping Hermione's hair high in its cheeky gusts. She huffed, pressing it down.

They passed the alleys and reached a small wood, trodding over the beaten paths. Hermione kept her hands close: the nettles had grown tall. Waterfat ferns bowed their heads to the ground; birds chittered in the brush. Hermione was silent, pondering Draco's words as she watched him in front. She'd panicked, at first, thinking the worst. Legilimency was passed down by blood, and Britain had had only five over the past century. It was very, very rare, and so, for a second, she'd imagined…

But it wasn't so. The ability could skip generations, she knew that. In fact, if often did, meaning her fears were unfounded. Her father wasn't... _couldn't be..._ Lord Voldemort. Or Dumbledore. That was just insane. Still, this did narrow down the list of potential candidates to several prominent bloodlines, although, _technically,_ due to the relatively small size of Britain's magical population, everyone was related to everyone in some degree. The Weasleys, Potters, Selwyns and Malfoys were all distant cousins of one another, but then why, if Legilimency was a genetic condition, did it manifest only in several families?

Hermione shook her head; she sensed that some critical part of information was missing, something she'd missed, but that wasn't right: she'd read all of the available literature on Legilimency, although the books were surprisingly sparse. By this point, she would have been discussing this development with the Malfoys, but Draco had stopped her. And what he'd said...

 _Lucius would kill her._

But why? What was so dangerous, what could precipitate such violence? So she was a Legilimens ‒ so what?!

By the time they reached the lake with the pier, Hermione was ready to explode with a million questions.

"Why, Draco?" Was the first thing that came out of her mouth. "Why would he kill me? Nothing I've ever read‒"

"You know, Granger, that's your problem," he interrupted, brusquely. Hermione responded to the rudeness with a withering glare, only for her efforts to be wasted. Draco didn't see it; he had turned away, looking at the water and reeds instead. "You trust books too much," he added, and the wind carried his words.

"There's nothing wrong with that!" she snapped, but he just sighed.

"There is if they've been written to mislead."

Hermione blinked, his words finally reaching her. "Are you implying that what I've read about Legilimency is a _lie?_ " It was technically possible: there were only a handful of books, and all written by the same author. Draco shook his head. "Not all of it," he said, wearily. "Just the important stuff."

A family of ducks passed below them, ripples chasing behind. Hermione knew Draco was watching them, but the stiffness in his shoulders conveyed just how uneasy he was. "What is it?" she asked, suddenly very softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He jerked, but she held her hand in place. "What do you know?"

She could feel the tenseness in his muscles and how rigidly he stood. But slowly, under her touch, he eased.

"I found out by accident," he breathed, after the ducks had passed. "When I was ten… You know there was supposed to be one more in our year?" She shook her head. "Kirit," Draco went on. "That was his name. Kirit Rosewood. We weren't friends, but I knew him. We even played, some. And then, when I was ten, he disappeared."

"What happened?"

Draco sighed, shrugging off her hand, and mentioned for her to sit. She mirrored his movements, lowering down and smoothing her skirt so that it stayed low.

"One night," Draco began, "I couldn't sleep. So I went down to the kitchens ‒ I fancied myself an adventure ‒ and I passed by one of the Floo parlours on the first floor. I overheard voices." His spoke quickly now, the words tumbling out, quick as a quaffle. "My parents were talking to some of the other families. Everyone was agitated and angry, because the Rosewood family had refused their ultimatum. Someone said they 'upset the balance of power.' Naturally, I became curious."

"Naturally," Hermione quipped. Draco glared, and she promptly shut up.

"So I listened further," he continued, after clearing his throat. "Kirit, as it turns out, was a Legilimens. I didn't know what the word meant ‒ not then ‒ but I figured it was something bad, because why else would everyone be so up about it? As I crouched by the door, I heard the families arguing for a long time. The majority wanted to 'handle' the Rosewoods. My mother and some others disagreed, but they were shouted down. 'The boy is too dangerous,' someone said, and almost everyone agreed. 'Tomorrow then,' I heard ‒ I think it was Goyle Sr's voice. 'At seven.' And then they all started to leave, so I had to run."

Draco paused, fidgeting. "Two days after that," he said, "there was a headline in _The Prophet._ The Rosewood residence had burned down. Fiendfyre. The entire family perished."

Hermione slumped back, aghast. "But...but _why?_ Why would they do that?!" she exclaimed.

" _Why?"_ Draco scoffed. "Is it that hard to figure out? How many people learn Occlumency?"

"Not many."

"Exactly! And those who do ‒ it takes them years to master it! We've been learning for two months and we've barely scraped the surface! So imagine how vulnerable that makes us to someone who can read minds! Someone like you! If you were trained, think of the secrets you could expose or use for blackmail; the power you'd hold over everyone and how far you could rise! Merlin, you don't even need to look far to see the potential: Dumbledore and the Dark Lord are prime examples!"

"But I wouldn't do that!" Hermione declared, stubbornly clenching her hands into fists. Draco groaned. "It's not about what you _would_ do," he ground out slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. "It's about what you _could._ Everything in the world is about power, Granger, and no one wants to give it up! Certainly not to some mind reader!

"So you think that they‒"

"Kill them, yes. Legilimens that are found are disposed of, quietly, while they're still young and weak; before they're too strong to be taken down. How many has Britain had anyway, including Dumbledore and the Dark Lord?"

"Five, the books said. In the past hundred years."

"Doesn't that number strike you as low? And what happened to the other three?"

"They...they died," Hermione admitted. "But it didn't explain how."

Draco scoffed. "Like anyone would admit to bloody murder. But that's beside the point. Don't you _see?_ I bet there were much more, but they were just handled covertly. Legilemenses are too powerful! When one is discovered, the other families band together to deal with the threat. Nothing brings folk together like a common enemy ‒ just like in the Rosewood case! They were probably delivered an ultimatum to...take care of their child, and when they refused, the whole family was eliminated! So, if you let anyone know about what you are, Granger, then I wouldn't give two spare Knuts for your life. One day, there'd be a green light out of some corner, and that's the last thing you'd see."

Hermione shivered. "Even your father? He'd kill me too?" She knew Lucius was capable of evil, but it was hard to imagine someone she shared dinner with would hold such violent intentions.

"My father would use you, at first," Draco said, leaning so close she could feel the heat coming off his skin. "Until the others found out. Then he'd sell you out in an instant, even though Mum would refuse. Your ability makes you dangerous, Granger, and even if we wanted to, we couldn't protect you ‒ not against everyone! You need to understand: what happened to the Rosewoods could happen to us."

Hermione felt like her head was splitting. The secrets, hidden dangers, her own unveiled history ‒ it was too much!

"But, the Ministry…" she made a feeble attempt, and Draco laughed.

"You are so naive, Granger!" he exclaimed, throwing up his arms. "The people in power would have the most to lose from a Legilimens! You think they want their dirty laundry aired? To be manipulated by some ex-muggleborn with an egalitarian agenda?! Of course not! They'd bury you in a heartbeat!"

He fell silent for a moment, breathing heavily. _It wasn't fair,_ went through Hermione's mind. _Why couldn't her life be normal? What did she do to deserve…_

The thoughts suddenly made her cringe in embarrassment. Compared to Harry, her life was a luxury. Harry had it much harder, but he didn't whinge, so what right did she have to fall apart?

"But you didn't," she suddenly said, realizing something.

"Huh?"

"You didn't bury me. You didn't have to, but you warned me. Saved me from harm." Hermione tried to catch Draco's gaze, but he kept averting his eyes. "Why, Draco? We're not friends, we just got...pushed together by fate. So why'd you do it?"

"I…" He paused, looking suddenly vulnerable, but then covered it up with a smirk. "Maybe I want to use you! Yeah." His voice rose with confidence ‒ too much of it, in Hermione's opinion. "You owe me now, Granger! A life debt! And that means I've got a Legilimens in my pocket. I've got plans, you know. Big plans!"

But whatever plans he had, he didn't get to voice them, because his ridiculous, pompous words just made Hermione laugh.

"What?!" he huffed, crossly. "Why are you laughing? Gone mad, Granger?"

Hermione chuckled some more and then quieted. "I don't believe you," she said clearly, in her trademark matter-of-fact voice, sure as if she was reciting the contents of _Hogwarts: A History._

Draco scowled. "And why's that?"

"Because." Hermione smiled, "Because you forget that I was in your head. And you know what I saw there?"

"What?" he snapped.

"That under all that hard exterior," Hermione said, raising a hand and pressing it to his chest, "under the bad-boy routine, and the egoism and immeasurable vanity, there's something... _good._ I felt it, Draco. And it was warm. Nice. And that is why you helped me: because you _wanted_ to. Because it was the right thing to do."

Maybe her speech was cheesy, maybe there too much pathos behind it, but it sure achieved the desired effect. Draco's eyes bulged. His mouth hung open, leaving him speechless. Hermione giggled at the sight, and then, unable to hold in her mirth, burst out into full laughter. Draco grew red; his ears curled into a special sort of maroon. He started sputtering, but it came out mostly incoherent, something about ' _daft Gryffindor girls'_ that were ' _barmy and utterly, disgustingly, mad'._ Hermione didn't mind. She jumped up, still laughing, and threw over her shoulder: "Race you home!"

She sprinted ahead, heart floating on happiness, which didn't abandon her even when Draco overtook her.

The feeling just grew stronger, in fact; because today, she knew, was a victory.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: A Conversation At Breakfast**

Her cheerful attitude persisted all through the night and into the next morning, when she descended from her bedroom to the first floor, where the Malfoy family was having breakfast. Hermione greeted everyone with a radiant smile, which the adults didn't return. Only Draco responded, shooting her a stealthy, clandestine grin. Hermione met his sparkling eyes and blushed. Something warm lodged in her throat. She felt it descend, slowly, circling 'round her pounding heart before dipping lower. Down it went, down, through her chest with a flutter and a burn indecent in its delight, causing her breath to quicken and her cheeks to grow hot. Hermione almost squeaked, ducking her head and jumping into a seat so fast that she nearly knocked the silverware from the table. There she sat, subtly trying to adjust her thighs to lessen this strange, new, and undeniably wicked sensation.

Fortunately, no one became aware of her breathless state. Draco was too preoccupied with dipping strawberries into a chocolate fondue (an exemplary breakfast, right there), and the adults…

It took a minute, but Hermione soon noticed that their behavior was odd.

Narcissa was visibly upset. Leaning close to her husband, she spoke in hushed tones. Lucius, already dressed in formal attire despite the early hour, was responding just as quietly. With overwhelming curiosity, Hermione strained her ears, managing to catch several phrases. Apparently, the Malfoys' discussion was centered on Fudge, and whether or not the 'recent events' would force a change in Ministry policy. Apparently, Lucius didn't even consider that a possibility, so, in a louder voice, Narcissa exclaimed: "But this is downright reprehensible! Can't Fudge see how this puts all us at risk?! And the children ‒ whatever their blood status ‒ don't deserve it; they're just victims, Lucius!"

At this point, Hermione couldn't resist the temptation. "What's happened?" she asked loudly, drawing the Malfoys' attention to her. "It's nothing important..." Narcissa began evasively, but she was interrupted by her husband.

"You should tell her," he threw, rising from his seat. "Given Ms. Selwyn's history, it would be distinctly enlightening."

Narcissa objected, "But at her age, Lucius! It's ghastly business!"

"All the more reason for her to be prepared sooner," the wizard argued, leveling a glare at his son. "Besides, it would be good for at least _someone in this household_ to be interested in matters of importance."

Draco, looking entirely unconcerned, ignored the barb. He'd added an eclair to his pile of chocolate-covered strawberries and was busy demolishing the whole affair. "Politics is boring," he responded between dainty bites, and Hermione figured he knew what his parents were talking about.

She also marveled at how dense he could be. It was more than obvious that such a blatant disregard of his father's interests would only infuriate Lucius, but Draco, Hermione realized with exasperation...he just didn't think these things through. For a Slytherin, he was remarkably short-sighted.

And so of course he reacted with complete surprise when his plate of sweets crashed to the floor, spilling its contents across the orinoco marble floors.

"My father," Lucius spoke in a low, quivering voice that barely restrained his rage, "would have beaten me senseless for such a comment. You _will_ learn what I tell you to, or you will suffer the consequences."

Hermione felt a stab of pity for Draco as he paled, wilting in his seat. "Yes, Father," he said quietly.

"And politics is a much more worthwhile pursuit than your stupid games or those silly drawings you keep wasting your time on," Lucius continued harshly. Draco's cheeks turned pink in response; his fingers, crumpling a napkin, clenched into fists.

"Lucius!" Narcissa admonished, trying to stop the dispute. She put a hand on her husband's arm, but he just brushed it off. "You've spoiled him enough, Cissy," he sneered. "It's time he became a man instead of playing child all the time. I'm meeting with the Minister now, but when I return ‒ _look at me, Draco!_ ‒ when I return, we will continue this discussion, and you will do as told. _Do I make myself clear?"_

Lucius didn't move until his son gave a sharp, scared nod. Satisfied, the elder Malfoy added one more glare and then swept out of the room, his cane tapping against the floors with a cold, methodical beat.

The tense moment of silence following his departure was broken when Draco staggered up from his seat. Flush from embarrassment, he stomped out of the room, kicking the half-eaten eclair past a house-elf that was already cleaning up the mess. "Darling…" Narcissa tried to call him back, but he just snarled in response. "Best to give him some time," Narcissa told Hermione, who wholeheartedly agreed and decided to use this moment to follow Lucius' suggestion. It irked her that even Draco had been aware of the subjects his parents were discussing, while she hadn't a clue. In some ways, Hermione still was a stranger in this world.

"So what happened?" she asked, leaning forward. "Why did you call the Minister's actions 'reprehensible'? Is that what your husband will be discussing with him? And who are the conservatives? And‒" Hermione would have continued this barrage of questions for some time had Narcissa not suddenly laughed, waving her hands in surrender. "Slow down, dear, slow down!" she chuckled. "I'll answer what I can, although it's not a happy matter." Her voice settled lower, becoming ominous. "There was an incident this morning."

"What sort of incident?" Narcissa's wary tone passed on to Hermione; a shiver passed down her spine.

"There was a bout of accidental magic from a child," she heard. "It manifested early, wasn't strong ‒ just some minor levitation ‒ so the Ministry didn't catch it. But the parents did."

"So they…" Hermione trailed off, confused.

"They're muggles." Narcissa managed to spit that word out with equal amounts of hatred and disgust. "They got scared. Thought _The Devil_ had possessed their daughter, or some other nonsense. They tried restraining her ‒ it didn't help, of course. Only exacerbated the response. So the parents panicked even more. They held her down harder. Harder, harder, and harder until the magic...ceased."

"Ceased." Hermione repeated with a feeling of dread. It took one look at Narcissa to understand that her half-formed guess was correct.

"Asphyxia," the older witch said. "The parents literally strangled her. By the time the Ministry flagged down the event and dispatched an MLE unit, it was too late. The girl was dead."

"That's terrible," Hermione gasped, but her state of shock wasn't reciprocated.

In fact, Narcissa, taking a sip of tea, seemed entirely unaffected. "Not the first time it's happened either," she added, so nonchalantly that it took Hermione a moment to realize what she meant. Then her eyes widened. "It's not?" she asked, stunned.

Putting her teacup down, Narcissa sniffed, putting all of her indignance into one simple sound. "No. As you are well aware, muggles aren't introduced to our world before the child's eleventh year, which often causes the parents to react...harshly towards any displays of magic. As a result, children have been shunned, abandoned, abused, and in some tragic cases such as this, even killed."

"But how's that possible?" Hermione exclaimed. "I would have heard of it; surely... _The Prophet_ ‒"

" _The Prophet_ is a mouth-piece for the Ministry," Narcissa snapped. "And what desire would they have to publicize their own failing strategies? And with the conservatives holding a majority in the Wizengamot, nothing will change."

Hermione slumped back, her mind snapping to Harry's miserable living conditions. He never really talked about them, but some things slipped through. Like how his "family" obviously didn't care for him. In fact, Hermione had already come to the conclusion that her friend had grown up deprived of childhood's most basic elements, such as love and affection and just plain old fun. His aunt and uncle had even kept him locked in a room, for Merlin's sake! And whose fault was this?! Who put him there, and how could such an injustice ever be tolerated?! Where were the Ministry...and Dumbledore...and everyone else...where were they looking?! Not only in regards to Harry, but in respect to all the other children as well?

"So children are dying while everybody just sits around, doing nothing?" she asked, eyes flashing, but the response she got was nothing like what she expected.

"Children die every day," Narcissa countered sharply, in a tone colder than ice. "That's not the issue. The issue is that even hundreds of years after the witch-burnings, after the inquisitions and torture chambers, the stakes and hordes of pitchfork-bearing peasant mobs, we still permit ignorance and muggles to murder our own! We let _them_ dictate the rules, instead of taking it into our own hands! And _He…"_ Narcissa rose from her seat, breathless and flushed with emotion as her voice escalated to murderous heights. "He promised to change that! A brave new world he called it, one where wizardkind wouldn't have to hide behind statutes, nor slither in the dark like some common thief, but rule‒"

Abruptly, as if just realizing what she was saying, Narcissa stopped, and a heavy silence descended. Hermione, motionless, sat frozen in her seat, both horror and shock dancing in the depths of her eyes.

"' _He'_ ", she repeated slowly, "you mean Lord Voldemort."

Lord Voldemort was not a topic of conversation in the Malfoy household. Since Hermione's arrival, everyone had come to a sort of unspoken agreement to circumvent even the mention of his name. Thus, Hermione had never shared the details of Harry's battle with Quirrell, nor Ginny's possession by the diary. The Malfoys, on their end, refused to elaborate on the wartime years, and of their _alleged_ connection to the dark wizard who still cast a shadow over the wizarding lands.

Narcissa's outburst gave Hermione her first true glimpse of the Malfoys' position on the subject. To her own dismay, she was less terrified and more...intrigued, should I say?

Narcissa looked away for a second, as if regretting her words, but then her gaze snapped back to Hermione. "Yes," she exclaimed boldly, "Ensuring that muggles could never again hurt or persecute wizardkind was one of his goals."

"And that…" Hermione uttered in disbelief, "that justified countless murders? That was the reasoning behind brutal torture and mutilation and Harry losing his parents?"

Narcissa sighed, suddenly looking very weary, almost...old. Her shoulders slumped, and she fell back down into her seat. "It all started so differently," she lamented. "There was an ideal, something worth fighting for. It was about our world and way of life, which stands on the brink of destruction. The Statute of Secrecy is hundreds of years old and already bursting at the seams, Hermione. It won't be long before it falls apart. And what then? What will happen to us? Our numbers are dwarfed by billions of muggles, and what good are protection charms against aerial bombardment or rockets that are designed to penetrate even the staunchest defences? That's what we strove to prevent, and ‒ I won't defend it ‒ some lines became crossed. Certain...individuals went out of control. Everything became so muddled. We shouldn't have fought our own."

She trailed off, but Hermione didn't even notice. All she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. She felt so small suddenly, so... _childlike._ Narcissa's words had opened a chasm beneath her feet, and on the one side were Hermione's own, limited experiences and on the other, everything else in this world. In this horrible moment, Hermione suddenly became aware that the rise of Lord Voldemort and wizarding Britain's subsequent civil war was something greater than just a struggle of good versus evil: it was a battle between ideologies, and everyone ‒ she, Harry, Ron and the Malfoys included ‒ were just caught in the middle. They were the consequences; the broken eggshells of an omelette that was still in the making; the ships in the storm, at the full mercy of a wind's whim. And it was shocking to realize that she was learning all of this only now, after spending three full years in the magical realm and attending a school where magical history was a required core subject.

 _We learn about 13'th century goblin rebellions,_ she thought with growing horror, _instead of the reasons behind Voldemort's rise to power, which was just over a decade ago! Is that because they don't want us to know?_ Hermione didn't know who 'they' were, but figured it was the people in charge of setting the curriculum in the first place. So, the Ministry? Dumbledore?

"Why is the Statute in danger of being breached?" she finally asked, to break the silence.

"Because it is ancient," Narcissa replied readily. "When our world went into hiding, muggles still lived in hovels, and scoured the forest floor for acorns to ground into flour. Then, they were easy to deceive. But now? With satellites and instant communication and computers that run on complicated algorithms? The people who wrote the Statute could have never even conceive of such things! But Fudge, as well as the entire conservative lobby, refuse to acknowledge that. They don't understand that we're hopelessly falling behind! They think that outdated legislation will save us, and if we all sit still with our collective heads buried in the sand, then nothing will touch us. Fools, the lot of them! Even in simple things, like ensuring the safety of children born to muggles, they dither, because that's just how things have been done for the entirety of their lives! Change is anathema to them, and, mark my words, it will mean the end of us all."

Narcissa wanted to continue, but the appearance of a house-elf interrupted the conversation. Hermione recognized him as Din, one of the messenger elves, which purebloods used when their communication didn't require anything so formal as a letter.

"The ladies Greengrass and Nott‒" Din began, bowing so low that his gnarled ears touched the ground, but Narcissa quickly cut him off. "Yes, yes," she said with layers of exasperation. "I was to meet them; they are, no doubt, wondering where I am. I'm sorry, dear." This was addressed to Hermione. "We will continue this conversation later, if that's alright."

Hermione hated it, but knew she had no choice but to agree.

"Excellent." Narcissa rose, quickly walking over to Hermione to place a tender kiss on her forehead. "Then I will see you before your departure, alright?"

Hermione gave a brief nod, which satisfied the older witch, because she smiled and then left the room, abandoning Hermione to ponder all the things she'd heard in solitude. Everything swirled in her head, mixing with no semblance of order as her mind kept jumping from Harry to the Statute of Secrecy to Voldemort and then to the poor little muggleborn girl, whose parents had unwittingly killed her.

And, Hermione thought, why didn't the Ministry notify parents earlier if their child was magical? Why wait eleven years, risking that a boy or girl would grow up shunned or wondering if they're crazy? It made no sense!

And, the purebloods: Hermione knew they loathed muggles, but now, for the first time, she questioned whether their hate originated out of fear or prejudice, because those were remarkably different things.

The clock ticked on the wall, and the shadows inched downwards as a blazing sun rose in a sapphire sky, and Hermione still sat, reflecting on things she'd never considered before. Only when the clock struck twelve did she move, because that left her only a single hour to pack for her trip to the Burrow, since the Weasleys had invited her to see the Quidditch World Cup.

* * *

 **All chapters have been beta'd by Frogster, many blessings on her wonderful soul.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: The Quidditch World Cup**

Mr. Weasley almost killed Lucius Malfoy.

Such an unlikely event occurred at dinner one evening, several weeks before, when Hermione informed the Malfoys that the Weasley family had managed to claim box seats for the Quidditch World Cup and had invited her to watch it with them.

Upon hearing that, Lucius promptly choked on his fish. The terms 'Weasleys' and 'box seats' did not mix in his world view; they were completely incongruous entities altogether. Lord Voldemort dancing to ABBA in a tutu would have been less shocking.

Ahh, yes. Lord Voldemort, the infamous Dancing Queen.

Anyways, Lucius spent five whole minutes wheezing, as his face slowly turned purple from the fish bone lodged in his throat. Eventually, Narcissa managed to knock it out, propelling it with such force that it shattered the garden windows and then disappeared amidst the rose bushes outside. Never found, it, presumably, lies hidden in the flowerbeds to this day, patiently awaiting a second chance upon Mr. Malfoy's life.

But enough about fishbones.

Hermione accepted the invitation, of course: it was simply too good of an opportunity to pass up. As Order members, the Weasleys could shed light on Adriana's final months, as well as other wartime activities. Getting that information would be tricky, though; it wasn't as if Hermione could just announce the reasons for her sudden interest, but she imagined she could wrangle out at least some details.

As it turned out, that couldn't have been any further from the truth.

She arrived at the Burrow in roundabout fashion: by first Flooing over to a secondary Malfoy estate in a posh Southampton suburb, and then taking the muggle car service. Flooing over directly from the Manor wasn't an option; such an act would have undoubtedly raised questions.

During the drive, Hermione kept thinking about that morning's conversation regarding muggles and the danger they posed; sadly, time had been too short to continue it. Still, she'd managed to grab a book on contemporary wizarding politics from one of the Malfoy libraries ‒ it was currently stowed away with the rest of her luggage, and later, maybe that very evening, she'd tear into its pages. But for now, Hermione sat still, watching the countryside roll by.

Heavy clouds gathered overhead as the car pushed along the English coast and then turned north, taking the 27 up to Salisbury. Rain started to pelt soon after, falling in fat droplets over a land yellowed by the hot summer. Hermione opened the window, letting the elements into the car. The wind nipped her cheeks, turning them red, and the rain caught in her hair, transforming the locks into bushy, fluffed-up monsters. She didn't care. The last few days had been packed full of events, and it felt good to just sit back and feel. Feel the wind and the rain, and the car speeding past parched lowlands, with jagged halos of oncoming traffic rushing by with a roar.

She squinted her eyes and yelled out words no one could hear, words whisked away by the wind. Thunder rumbled in the heavens; Hermione, imagining that it was nature's answer to her call, lifted her head to smile at the stormy skies. It was silly, that smile, almost whimsical, like a child's: carefree and happy; and it persisted for a long time, up until the Mercedes rolled to a gentle stop in front of a building that was either a marvel of architectural ingenuity, or held up by magic.

That building was, of course, The Burrow.

Turns out, it _sucked._

 **. . . .**

Three days later, Hermione was ready to climb the walls. Or maybe burn them. Or even chew through to the other side, wood, plaster, insulation and all, because Hermione was pretty sure she could: her teeth were in excellent condition and the Weasley walls were...not. In fact, a couple of well placed holes would probably be an improvement, she told herself spitefully. At least it'd be less stuffy.

And, despite the cooling charm that Mrs. Weasley kept refreshing, it was _very_ stuffy in the kitchen. And blisteringly hot from the two stoves that were on, full blast, as Ginny and Hermione, hair tied up and sweat rolling down their faces, assisted Mrs. Weasley with preparing dinner for eleven.

Meanwhile, the men were outside, _supposedly_ setting up the tables, but all Hermione could hear was their laughter. _They_ were having fun. _She_ was inside, working.

In the kitchen.

A twenty-first century witch.

Somewhere, dead feminists were rolling in their graves.

In all honesty, were this a class, Hermione might have actually enjoyed the experience. Culinary magic was a challenge. One could not just wave their wand and, voila, have a whole roast appear. No. It required intense focus and concentration, as well as a proficiency in a wide array of charms. Take something simple, for example, like warming up leftovers. A muggle would just stuff them in a microwave; maybe use a skillet. A witch or wizard had the option of a heating charm, but it was not that simple.

The heating charm had to be controlled; the temperature meticulously regulated. An experienced wizard could warm up different parts of the food at separate rates, retaining or even emphasizing flavor. This required a great deal of control, like juggling a set of balls all at once, except this task was accomplished with one's mind.

Molly Weasley was, admittedly, a master of such magic, making her a very formidable witch, as Hermione realized. She had already picked up on several techniques not yet covered in her classes. Usually, this would have left her thrilled. Problem was, Hermione didn't come here to learn magic. She came to learn about Adriana, and so far, all she had to show for her efforts was a big, fat, ugly zero. As in: nothing. Nada. Zip-zippidy-doo-da. And it was driving her up the walls.

Any attempt to shepherd the conversation towards wartime events was masterfully evaded. Hermione didn't even know if it was done on purpose or if the Weasleys really just had other things on their mind. Most of the talk centered on Quidditch, anyways. Victor Krum, Ireland's chasers, and England's abysmal performance at the qualifiers were the usual topics of discussion, unless Percy was in the room and then it was all cauldron bottoms and Mr. Crouch this, Mr. Crouch that.

Well, Hermione had never seen these people, but she was already developing a poignant loathing of both Mr. Crouch and Victor Krum, as well as the whole damn sport of Quidditch. She wanted to talk about the war!

Unfortunately, trying to approach the elder Weasleys for a tete-a-tete did her no favors either. Usually, she'd just get sent out to assist with chores. There were always things to do in the Burrow, and it wasn't that Hermione really minded helping out, it was just that, ugh, there were house-elves for this sort of thing! Cleaning rooms and chasing gnomes weren't duties fit for a witch!

But, of course, pointing out the Weasley's impoverished financial status (hence lack of house-elf) would have been an uncouth and a very _Malfoy_ thing to do. Draco would have tried to rub it in, certainly. Figuring she was better than that, Hermione grit her teeth and did the chores, despite the fact that they were often distributed on a very gender-based principle.

Molly Weasley, for all her capabilities as a witch, held to some very traditional notions regarding women's role in society.

"Alright, girls, I think we're done here," Molly finally said, breaking up Hermione's thoughts. "Why don't you two go clean up and get ready for dinner."

Hermione and Ginny didn't need to be asked twice. Both quickly chucked off their aprons, scampered out of the kitchen, and then dashed up the stairs to their shared bedroom, where the temperature was at least palatable. There was a bit of a tussle as they fought for first rights to the shower; Hermione, who had spent the entire summer reading, lost, but managed to stick an elbow into Ginny's ribs before the door promptly shut her in face. "Witch!" she yelled, slamming her palms against the wooden surface, only to hear Ginny's mad cackling from the other side, which, really, only proved her point.

She huffed and sat down to read as she waited, but her mind kept wandering off, and she ended up staring out the window instead. When Ginny stepped out of the shower, Hermione took her turn.

Twenty minutes later, as the autumn sun dipped into its slumber, the girls descended to the garden. A waning scarlet sky spread above their shoulders, and small magical lights, like shimmering fireflies, floated above the green. Hermione lifted her head; there, at the edge of the horizon, with a cloak of softest velvet, night approached. She came softly, treading into the world to soothe the ache of day, and a scarf of pearls whipped about her shoulders and a blazing silver bow glittered on her neck.

The Weasleys (and Harry) were already here, ready to dig into the feast. Together, they made a boisterous and rather rambunctious bunch, which knocked Hermione off-guard, at first. An only child, she wasn't used to such...fervor at dinner. At the Malfoys', it was a stately affair, subdued, usually quiet. Here, conversations crossed over each other, as yelling rose on one side of the table, while someone else was asking to pass the salt on another. It was a clamor, a cacophony, and yet, despite all the craziness surrounding her, Hermione couldn't keep a wide grin from erupting on her face. This redheaded pack was a family, and, somehow, for some unknown reason, they had chosen to accept her into their ring, making all of her immediate frustrations ‒ from the secrets she bore to the information on Adriana she couldn't find ‒ melt away. It was just dinner, and it felt great.

Even Ron was being nice. Hermione had gathered that inviting her over was more his parents' idea, but now, over dinner, he was generally civil and only mentioned Scabbers once. Harry, sitting next to her, tensed when he did.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head, but Ron, who was busy shoveling lumps of casserole into his mouth with the speed and efficiency of an industrial excavator, seconded Hermione's curiosity.

At that moment, there was a large bout of laughter from the other end of the table, where Charlie was recounting a wildly inappropriate tale involving a shrew, a dragon tamer, and a pair of worn female trousers. Harry, seeing that no one was paying close attention to them, lowered his voice and said, "I think I saw him."

"Who?" Ron asked.

"Scabbers!" Harry whispered. "I know it's crazy, but…"

Ron gaped. "Scabbers? Where? At your aunt and uncle's?"

"Yeah. It was about a month ago, and I didn't write about it, 'cause I didn't want you to worry, but…"

"Tell us what happened, Harry," Hermione said softly.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more and sighed. "I was doing some gardening for my aunt, and then…my scar suddenly started burning. And I looked up, and I saw this rat sitting on the neighbor's fence. It was just _staring_ , you know, like watching me. And I realized that it looked just like Scabbers."

"Are you sure?" Ron uttered after a pause. "It could've been any old rat. And Scabbers was looking pretty poorly before he disappeared. I doubt he could have traveled all the way from Hogwarts to your house."

"I know, I know," Harry agreed, still sounding distraught.

"Well, did you write Dumbledore about it?" Hermione asked. Harry and Ron turned to look at her like she was crazy.

"What would he write about?" Ron scoffed. "That he saw a rat? Oh, that's Ministry level stuff right there; better send the Aurors in!"

Harry laughed.

"About his scar, you nimwit!" Hermione hissed, feeling an urge to smack their heads together. "You said it was burning, right, Harry?"

"Well, I guess, a little," her friend sheepishly admitted.

"Well, that could be important! Barklow's _Study of Magical Scars and Marks_ explicitly states that‒"

Harry and Ron turned pale. "Not schoolwork!" Ron exclaimed, and Harry added: "It's still summer; Hermione: we're on _break."_

"But Barklow's text isn't part of the school curriculum," Hermione objected peevishly, thus allowing the conversation to get sidetracked. "I read it for‒"

"‒ _fun."_ Harry and Ron groaned at the same time. Hermione glared, but they just met her with matching grins. "C'mon, lighten up, Hermione," Harry said. "Not everything's about‒" he lowered his voice again "‒Voldemort. Sometimes, a rat's just a rat."

"What rat?" Ginny, catching the tail-end of their conversation, jumped in from the side. "You mind your own business!" Ron quickly responded, poking his sister. Ginny reciprocated with an elbow to his ribs, and the quarrel would have surely escalated from there, if not for Mrs. Weasley's prompt shout. The siblings fell silent, but it was a momentary peace, ready to turn hot again the moment their mother turned away. Hermione smiled. These were her friends, and even though they went through rough patches, she wouldn't trade them for any others.

Of course, that made her feel a little guilty about keeping her secret from Harry and Ron, although she'd gotten used to it. Hermione figured once she found out why Adriana had hidden her, she could tell them everything. Oh, the look on their faces! They probably wouldn't even believe her at first! She'd have to prove she was friendly with Draco. Maybe she'd kiss him. Hermione giggled at the thought.

"Why are you laughing?" Ron asked suspiciously.

Hermione blushed, but grinned even harder. "No reason."

"Probably still thinking about Barklow's _Study of Whatever and_ ‒ Ow!" Harry glared, rubbing the spot on the arm where Hermione smacked him. "You earned that!" she huffed indignantly, and this time it was Ron laughing.

The rest of the evening passed just as merrily.

Later, in bed, Hermione tried to think about Harry's strange sighting of (maybe?) Scabbers, because it was probably important, but her thoughts kept drifting off, returning time and time again to a certain spoiled, prattish and yet surprisingly loyal blond.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The next day passed in a blur of nervous excitement.

The crowds were wild, and Hermione had never witnessed such magical diversity. There were tribal shamans of many native peoples: withered, aged, they dressed in fanciful animal skins and covered their faces in scours of luminescent paint. Voodoo practitioners from the Caribbean mingled with Inuit healers, bundled in clothes as pale as the snowy reaches they called home. Baba Yagas ‒ those ancient crones from the endless Russian steppes ‒ wandered by, flanked by all kinds of nature spirits, including _leshiis, domovois_ and creatures Hermione had not only never seen, but never even heard of!

There were wizards wielding staffs of lightning and witches whose robes were woven from flame. A group of oriental women carrying the mark of Izanami were handing out _emas_ ‒ small wooden plaques that one might write a wish upon ‒ and Hermione took one. Artificers and potioneers had set up shops; broom-makers advertised the latest models; merchants cried out wares. Harry bought his friends a bubbly drink; Hermione and Ron, much to his delight, spent the next five minutes burping up enormous yellow bubbles. They floated up high before exploding, dousing the group and those around them in drops of sugary fluid that tasted like cream.

Music beat through the camps: a rapid, percussive tempo that set the blood aflame. Here and there people broke out in dance, often ignoring the harried Ministry wizards whose mission of retaining order had been doomed to failure from the very start. Couples sought shadowy nooks and lost themselves to each other without much care for the rest of society. Upon stumbling on their third pair _in flagrante_ , the trio began carefully avoiding any suspicious corners, although Hermione was afraid that the scarlet heat upon her cheeks had now become a permanent fixture.

By evening, the festivities were in full swing and might never have ceased if not for the sudden drone of horns that announced the start of the match. Like a swarm, the crowds reacted; thousands swept into the stadium, pulling Hermione, Harry and the Weasleys along with them.

The box seats were at the very top. Various Ministry officials and the Malfoys were already there. Hermione and Draco shared a smirk (both found keeping up their facade of animosity to be rather amusing at times), and then quickly changed it to a scowl at Ron's suspicious glance.

Of course, the game went exactly as the Weasley twins predicted. Ireland won. Victor Krum caught the snitch.

What the twins didn't foresee was the blood that followed. The flames. The fighting. And the men in black.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Hermione woke to screams, and moments later she was dashing through the encampment. Tents were burning. Smoke filled the air. Blood, hot and heavy, pounded in her ears with the ferocity of a war drum. It was hard to breathe, and Harry had to tug her along in some places, his hand latched onto hers like steel. Ron was nearby too, but the rest of the Weasleys had been lost in the mayhem.

Bursts of red lightning suddenly ripped through the smoke, raking the ground in front of them. The trio dove down behind a tent and huddled together, waiting as a group of people ran past. Then, hearing laughter and shouting twisting into a demented symphony somewhere on their right, they took off again, sprinting for a small wood just ahead. They tumbled into the tree line just as a group of hooded wizards appeared in the smoke. Four individuals were suspended in midair above them; Hermione, her blood going cold, realized they were muggles, being tortured by Death Eaters.

At the same time, she noticed they weren't alone.

Her heart fluttered and something warm bloomed in her chest. Draco was here, he was all right, and that meant…

That meant…

What did that mean?

He'd been staring at the muggles with a smirk, looking almost gleeful, but when Hermione appeared, his eyes widened a fraction of an inch. Something close to worry skimmed across his features, and Hermione felt the warm feelings expand but that was wrong, because, because...

He was worried for her.

...but not for the muggles.

Blood. That's all that mattered. Blood.

And ice replaced warmth in her veins. A cold fury grew in her heart. She didn't hear Draco arguing with Harry and Ron. All she could think about was how stupid she'd been. _Operation Reformation_ ‒ what a joke! What had she achieved? She'd just made him play some video games? And that was the pinnacle of her efforts?

He looked just like his father, Hermione realized. And, speaking of Lucius: where was he? There, with the other Death Eaters? The man that she had amicable conversations with over dinner was busy torturing muggles. The same man that had almost killed Ginny via the Dark Lord's diary. And she'd just rationalized that fact away. She was just as bad, wasn't she? She had accepted the evil, tried to look past it, but only to become a part.

And Draco was growing up exactly the same. He'd become another Lucius soon, despite all her efforts. He'd be eager to dangle some muggles in midair, to relish in their screams. It disgusted her. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was that she...she _liked him._ And so how dare he?! How dare this spoiled, racist brat...this little monster...act like this?!

The three boys weren't looking at Hermione. They didn't notice her lips twist into a feral snarl or her hands curl into fists. Her eyes had grown dark as coal, and magic crackled in her hair, making it stand on end.

And then Draco, who was desperately trying to get Hermione away from this place, because she wasn't safe, and she _needed_ to be safe, made some comment about her knickers.

Hermione didn't even hear it.

All she could see through her narrowed eyes was the spitting image of Lucius, spitting on those of lesser blood.

It all happened so fast. In two quick motions, Hermione, pushing past Harry and Ron, jumped up to Draco, raised her hand, and then, quick as serpent's bite, smashed her fist into his jaw.

It was his complete and utter look of surprise ‒ right in the moment before impact ‒ that brought her to her senses, but it was too late. She felt a bitter stinging pain in her hand, and then Draco sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from his lips. For a moment, all was frozen. He stared at her, bewildered and betrayed.

Quiet. It was quiet.

And then Ron, whose eyes had gone wide as saucers, whispered in an awed voice: "Remind me to never comment on her knickers, Harry."

Harry nodded mutely, but the silence was shattered.

Draco's expression twisted into rage. "You _BITCH!"_ he screamed, swiping the blood from his chin. Hermione opened her mouth to apologize, to say something ‒ _anything_ ‒ but only a pit of horror churned in her chest, and so nothing came out, and then Harry was tugging at her hand, because the Death Eaters had turned in their direction.

"We have to go, Hermione! Let's go!" he yelled, pulling her away, and, in her dazed state, she let him.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder as they were running away, but saw only fire and smoke. Draco was gone. Tears stung at her eyes, but there was nothing she could do. Except run.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Mr. Weasley took them back to the Burrow one hour later. Hermione was still reeling from the recent events. That moment of fury ‒ hitting Draco ‒ was gone, replaced by confusion, fear and a mountain of guilt. He'd hadn't participated in the atrocities. On the contrary, he'd just tried to keep her safe, and what had she done in response? She'd hit him. Been an emotional bitch.

Harry and Ron were thrilled, but Hermione just felt nauseous. In one second, she'd ruined all the progress she'd made. And now, what would Draco do? Oh, gods, how stupid she'd been! What if he retaliated? He was petty. He could be mean. And he knew all her secrets. That she was a Selwyn, a legilimens. What if he decided to expose her? What then? How had he put it? " _One day, you'll see a bright green light, and then it's all over?"_

The more Hermione thought about it, the more terrified she became. It was a disease that slowly consumed her. She paced in her room, eyes feverish, biting nails until they bled. What should she do? Return to the Manor? But just the thought of staring Lucius Malfoy in the eyes made her sick. Still, Hermione needed to determine a course of action. Something quick that would keep her safe. But for that, she needed answers. Answers. Answers…Her eyes paused on her trunk.

And then the solution clicked in her head. It was so simple. Right?

Ten minutes later Hermione snuck downstairs. Draped under Harry's invisibility cloak, she clutched her wand in one hand and the letter from Rosoled Demiburg in another. The same letter that she had ignored, fearing it was a trap, but her options were limited now.

The Weasleys were half outside, half in the kitchen, drinking from mugs of hot chocolate and discussing the attack. They didn't hear her. She left them a note, just in case someone noticed her disappearance before she returned, although Hermione hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The jar of Floo Powder was right on the mantelpiece. Hermione took a pinch, threw it into the fireplace and whispered the location where Rosoled wanted to meet.

"Knockturn Alley."

 **. . . .**

The public Floo terminal in Knockturn Alley was located right next to a pair of dumpsters. Scrunching up her nose, Hermione supposed it was to ward off unwelcome wanderers, although the stench of decay permeated the entire alley. Several people glanced up with suspicion at a fireplace that burned green but expelled no one. Hermione, hidden under the invisibility cloak, carefully slipped past, and no one noticed. Only a mangy black dog, ruffling through the trash, paused to follow her with its gaze.

The alley was full of people. The Quidditch Cup had brought thousands of witches and wizards into London's magical enclave, and to them, the night was still young. So what if the Death Eaters had attacked some campsite? That was far away. Here, the party was in full swing, with fireworks exploding in the night skies and booze flowing freely in establishments that would take several months' profit off this day alone.

Hermione carefully waded through the crowds. The letter from Rosoled Demiburg was still in her hands. How it had found her wasn't a question. Messenger owls could contact almost anyone alive, but following them was never an option. They used some sort of temporal displacement magic that subverted local time fields, making them untrackable. Anyone could send anyone a letter in the magical world, and the owls would dutifully deliver it. The letter had left a bad taste in her mouth, and so Hermione had never responded. Now, she was cursing that decision.

Maybe Rosoled Demiburg had known that Hermione (the Selwyn heir) was alive. Or maybe it was a test. Maybe whoever this person was, they just sent out a letter to see if it would be returned unopened. Hermione had taken it, and the owl had flown away relieved of its burden. That fact alone gave the sender information.

Hermione didn't know what Rosoled wanted. Maybe it was honest attempt to help her, but she'd taken the cloak as a precaution. She also cast a light-dampening charm on the hood of her robes. It wasn't a strong charm ‒ a simple _finite_ could cancel it ‒ but before then, anyone trying to take a glimpse at her face would just see a shroud of shadow.

Hermione stopped at a grimy bar called _Hades' Rock._ It was at the end of the alley, where the buildings sagged under a sense of despair. The crowds of drunken revelers had grown thin. A bum was puking in the gutter, and a pair of men pulled a protesting girl into a dark nook. There was a scream, a slap, and sounds of scuffle. No one batted an eye. Hermione shivered. Was her mystery worth this? Worth coming here?

Rosoled had wrote that she could be contacted by leaving word with the barkeep of _Hades' Rock._ All Hermione had to do was drop Rosoled's name, and further instructions would follow. Answers, Rosoled had promised. Answers to any question. Hermione gulped.

 _Brave,_ she whispered to herself. _Bravery sets Gryffindors apart._

With that thought, she took a deep breath, shrugged off Harry's cloak, and, ensuring the hood of her robes still lay low over her features, entered the bar.

Inside, she paused, surveying the dimly-lit area. A few scarce torches, obscured in a haze of tobacco smoke, provided a paucity of illumination. There were maybe ten tables; half were filled with seedy-looking folk, sipping on ale or throwing back cheap whiskey. A filthy stench wafted up from a snoring figure on the floor; a dice game clacked in a corner. Someone laughed, and a few drunken voices joined in. Hermione could feel heads turning to stare at her, leering gazes that made a needle of fear lance through her heart.

Quelling a tremor, she grasped her wand and tried to dart past the tables, aiming for the other end of the bar, but someone's hand shot out to grab her.

"Who'sa this?" a low male voice, reeking of ale and garlic, growled in her ear. "Let go!" she hissed, struggling, but the man pulled her closer. "A lass!" he exclaimed to a chorus of hoots. Someone whistled, and Hermione felt a hand groping roughly at her breasts. "Definitely a wee lass," the voice cackled, "a young'un too! Come 'ere precious, I'll break ya in soft."

"We'll all break ya in!" The men at the table jeered, reaching for her robes.

"You'll like it, darling'!"

" _Kostiloma!"_ The spell had Slavic roots. Hermione had discovered it among the dark tomes of Malfoy library stacks. The man who was trying to pull her into his lap cried out in pain. Hermione leapt away, hearing the bones in his arms snap and splinter into pieces. His compatriots, swearing profusely, whirled out their own wands, but Hermione already had hers pointed at them.

"Try it. Just try it. You'll end up worse than him," she growled, trying to supress the sheer panic gripping her throat. Her heart was pounding; adrenaline surged in her veins. She wanted to scream and run, but the rational part of her mind stopped her. _Show weakness and you become prey_ , it whispered. _Run, and they'll all give chase._ So she stared the men down, clenching her wand so tight that her fingers turned white. For a moment, the bar was still, and then one of the men hiccuped. He swore and sat down for a drink. And just like that, the tense silence was broken. The rest of the table gave him a look, shrugged, and followed his lead.

Hermione almost sagged with relief.

"Bitch got balls," someone muttered to a scattering of laughter, and then more ale was poured, and someone from another table even clapped, and no one, Hermione noticed, was leaning down to help the whimpering mess of a wizard she'd hexed.

The show was over; the night went on. Incidents such as this were regular affairs in this part of town.

Not for Hermione, though. She just wanted to cry. The moment of adrenaline had passed, and her breaths were coming out in quick, ragged pants.

 _Hyperventilation,_ a part of her clinically diagnosed the symptom. _Common stress response._

A minute later, she still wasn't fine, but standing in place wasn't an option. Someone might call her bluff, and Hermione's fingers were trembling so hard she wasn't sure she'd get off another spell.

So stuffing her arms into the robes' pockets, Hermione briskly walked up to the bar counter, watching for any grabby hands along the way. Apparently, her demonstration had made an impact, because no one tried. The barkeep gave her a disinterested glance.

"I'm looking for Rosoled Demiburg," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. The barkeep froze, and Hermione didn't like the look that crossed over his face.

"An interesting name," he said after a moment, putting away the filthy rag he was using to wipe some glasses. "And who's asking?"

Hermione swept her tongue over dry lips. She could see the barkeep was now peering down at her, trying to penetrate the charm-induced darkness of her hood. His arm was creeping down behind the counter. She felt the panic rise again, bile in her throat.

"I was told you could lead to me Rosoled," she tried again, ignoring the question and hoping for the best. Her spirits sunk when she saw his eyes flicker between her and the door. "I can," he replied, in a voice laced with faux politeness. "Why don't you have a seat. I'll send a messenger. You can meet shortly." His hand gripped something under the counter. Hermione took a step back. " _Stupefy!"_

She dodged the spell just in time, hearing it whistle by her ear. Reflexively, Hermione sent out a _bombarda_ in response. She'd practiced the spell over the summer and it had never been strong, but now, whether due to panic or sheer stress, her _bombarda_ blasted the counter apart, sending the barkeep tumbling against the wall.

"Fifty galleons for the girl!" he screamed amidst the sounds of crashing glass. "Five to each who helps capture her!"

Hermione whirled around with a gasp. She glanced towards the door, but the bar's patrons were already in motion, shuffling up to their feet and reaching for their wands. This wasn't just one table. This was _everyone,_ the entire bar, and they all wanted only one thing now: her.

Meanwhile, the barkeep had regained his footage and, using Hermione's distracted state, lunged forward, grabbing the hem of her robes. Hermione shrieked, instinctively batting the hand away with her wand. The result was more than effective: with a brilliant flash, the barkeep was sent flying across the room, knocking two patrons off their feet and smashing into the opposite wall. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, tried to get up, and then fell again, a pool of blood growing under his head.

The others paid his injury no heed. With greedy cries, they surged forward, chasing the fleeing witch. Hermione scampered away, flying into a back room, full of stacked crates and bottles. Weaving through the merchandise, she dashed to the exit and pushed with all her might, but the door refused to budge. With a strangled cry, Hermione tried again, hearing the sounds of pursuit close in. Several men tried to force their way into the room all at once, thus clogging the doorway. A scuffle broke out between them, giving Hermione a few precious seconds. She closed her eyes, hopeless, and then remembered there was a wand in her hand.

" _Alohomora,"_ she practically begged, and heard a _click_ in response. Darting out of the bar, she found herself in a dark alley, going east to west. Choosing the direction where the sounds of late-night festivities seemed to be louder, Hermione set off running and smacked into a brick wall.

It was a dead end.

" _No,"_ she gasped, but it was too late. The men were piling into the alleyway, blocking off the only exit. Grunting, they angled their wands down at the small witch, who had raised her own.

"Who gets the fifty?" someone asked.

"We'll split it," the man in front answered. "Don't be greedy: we fight now, bitch might get away, leave us with nothing. Play it safe. Agreed?"

The men all nodded, some chuckling in anticipation. Hermione could see them smirking: ghastly, ghoulish grins as they raked her form with their oily eyes. Terror surged through her chest.

"Put the wand down, girl," the self-appointed leader yelled, as a dog scurried past his feet, disappearing behind some empty crates. Even if she wanted, Hermione couldn't have answered: her throat was tight with panic, and her heart was beating so hard she was afraid it would burst. She whimpered, feeling darkness creep into the corners of her vision. Why had she come here? Why? Why? _Why?!_

Her back was to the wall, and the men were advancing, closing in like a pack of hounds on its prey. Hermione could actually hear them growling.

"Well, if you don't want the easy way," the leader laughed, "it'll have to be the hard. _Stupe_ ‒"

He never finished his spell. A blast from the side sent all the men tumbling to the ground. Smoke filled the alleyway, obscuring everything beyond a foot or two. Hermione coughed, clutching her mouth with one hand and waving her wand in the other. Tears stung her eyes, and it was hard to see.

Suddenly, a pair of arms gripped her by the waist. Hermione wailed, but whoever was holding her didn't even flinch.

"Hold still," she heard a low growl, and then the world spun like a dreidel, going 'round and 'round, disorienting her with waves of crashing dizziness. Hermione felt nausea rise in her throat, and when everything stopped moving, she fell to the ground, vomiting her stomach's contents onto a dirty floor.

She was gasping for breath, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she didn't stop retching until there was nothing left.

And then she heard someone move behind her. Blind panic tore through her veins yet again. She scuttled forward, tearing the skin off her knees, and then turned, pressing her back into a corner like some captured animal. She looked up, and her face went white.

There, standing in ragged robes, with a face that was more beastly than human, was none other than the infamous murderer, Sirius Black.

Hermione gasped again, felt something pop in her chest, and then everything went dark.

* * *

 **Huge thanks to Frogster.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: A Sirius Declaration**

"Strange magic. Strange, yet powerful! It shrouds, conceals! Makes miss look like dirt, but her blood...her blood sings of purity! You can't mask its cry! Ohh, Kreacher hears it: a hymn of generations! Ancient power; music to his ears! He wants to taste it, yes, he does; to roll it on his tongue, to savor that precious, dewy liquid..."

"Hands off, you mad elf! You even try to taste some 'precious, dewy liquid', and I'll flay the skin off your ears!"

"Of course, master. Master is so kind. So wonderful. So great. Pity he's just traitorous, muggle-loving scum that broke his poor mother's heart‒"

" _Kreacher!"_

 _Pop._

"Blasted elf. How's he still alive? And where's the rejuvenating draught? Hey, can you hear me?"

Sirius looked at the girl. She twitched again, but it wasn't a conscious movement. _Bad dreams_ , thought Sirius. _That's what bad dreams look like._ He settled in to wait on an armchair, letting his eyelids droop. He, too, had bad dreams.

 **. . . .**

There was a crack in the ceiling. That was the first thing Hermione registered: a crack, winding all the way from one side of the room to the other, weaving like a garden snake between blotches of ancient water stains. Hermione followed its course, tracing its path to a corner, where it ducked under a layer of thick cobwebs. That made her anxious. It wasn't right for something to disappear just like that. Things shouldn't end without a trace...even silly, useless things, like cracks in the walls.

Hermione frowned and continued her search. Eventually, she found it again. It was lower now, on the wall, where the paint had peeled away in little chips. This time, it led her to a lumpy-looking armchair, occupied by a scraggly man with dark circles under his eyes. He had long, untamed hair, and was hunched over at an odd angle, breathing rhythmically.

His name was Sirius Black.

Hermione took a moment to recall everything she knew about the man. Sirius Black: Harry's godfather, Lily and James' best friend...until he betrayed them, that is. Supposedly, he went mad after the news of his master's death. Tried to escape justice; blew up Peter Pettigrew, along with a dozen muggles; was subsequently apprehended and then sentenced to life in Azkaban. Escaped last summer. He'd been hunting for Harry ever since, looking to finish the job; at least, that's what the papers said. Obviously a capable wizard: not only had he escaped an inescapable prison, but had managed to break into Hogwarts, too.

Information regarding Sirius Black had been sparse lately. Journalists speculated he was laying low, or maybe had left England altogether, possibly in search of his master. Obviously, those stories were a steaming pile of shite.

Hermione slowly licked her lips. She could think of only one reason for Sirius Black to abduct her. So, slowly, making sure not to disturb the sleeping wizard, she raised her hands, reaching out from under the covers, trying to find her...

"I've got your wand."

Hermione jolted, jerking her hands back. The voice she heard was low, raspy. Unused. She imagined that was what people sounded like after being marooned on some desolate island, spending years in isolation without any human company.

Hermione gulped and said, "I won't give you Harry."

Sirius didn't reply. He just stared at her through his curtain of matted hair, and Hermione could hear him breathing. Finally, unnerved by the silence and his glistening eyes, she continued, louder this time: "That's why you kidnapped me, right? To set a trap for Harry? To use me as bait? Well, he won't go for it! And I won't help you murder him, so you've gained nothing by taking me here, nothing at all!"

She was panting by the end, distraught. Sirius still didn't respond; instead, he mumbled something very quickly to himself. He really was mad, then, Hermione thought.

"Look," she said, "just let me go, alright? I won't tell anyone‒"

"You had his cloak," Sirius interrupted.

"What?" The words knocked her off balance. "Whose cloak?"

"James'. James' invisibility cloak. You were under it all the way to the bar." Sirius said, falling silent again.

"Well, it's Harry's now," Hermione replied, after a pause. She was confused. "And I'd like it back. Along with the rest of my things." She made a move to stand up and then quickly ducked back under the covers, wrapping the bedsheets around her into a protective cocoon. She was, as became readily apparent, naked.

"Where are my clothes?"

"Hm?" Sirius was scratching his head, picking things out of his hair ‒ not a pleasant sight.

"My clothes," Hermione repeated, with panic. "Where are my clothes? Did you...did you…" Floundering, she scooted as far back on the bed as she could go and pulled her knees up against her chest.

"What?" Sirius exclaimed, finally giving her his undivided attention. "No! _No!_ I didn't...I mean, I wouldn't...I had the house-elf change you!" Even in the darkness of the room, Hermione could see the vibrant color of his blush, which comforted her more than any words or assurances. Rapists and molesters, after all, probably don't go red at the mention of naked girls.

"They were covered in blood," Sirius explained, with embarrassment. "Your clothes, I mean. Blood, vomit."

"Oh."

Hermione could hear the clock on the wall ticking. She glanced around, having no idea how to continue, but before her mind could come up with anything, Sirius said, "I want to see Harry."

"No," Hermione replied, snapping her eyes back to the madman.

"You don't understand, girl." His voice was low, threatening. "He's in danger!"

"Well that is rich," Hermione sneered in response, "coming from you." She flinched when he jumped up, advancing menacingly.

"I want to see my godson," Sirius growled from the foot of the bed.

"Why? So you can kill him too?" Sirius paled, but Hermione pressed on, twisting the proverbial knife with all the bitterness she could muster: "Just like you killed his parents?"

The man went deathly-white, and then rage shrouded his features. Hermione pressed her back into the wall behind her, her heart pounding loud as a drum.

"I DIDN'T KILL LILY AND JAMES!" Sirius roared.

"Oh, yes." Despite the chill in her bones, Hermione couldn't keep from biting out, "I forgot. You didn't: you let your master do the deed!"

"HE WAS NOT MY MASTER!" Sirius yelled again, furious and desperate. "I WOULD NEVER HURT LILY AND JAMES! NEVER! Never…" Suddenly, like a branch felled by lighting, his voice cracked, and he fell back into his chair with a wail. His shoulders started to shake, and he curled his head down, rocking back and forth on his seat.

"It was Peter," he sobbed, with all the sorrow of a man who'd lost everything and then had twelve years to dwell upon it. "It was Peter. It wasn't me. Peter the rat. I should have known. I should have… And he's been with Harry at school. Biding his time. I tried to catch him, but he's gone now. Gone, and I can't find him. All of them are gone…"

Hermione shifted slightly to a rustle of bedsheets. She didn't think he was faking ‒ the emotion was too strong, too raw. But that wasn't the focus of her troubles now. One word had stood out for her, rubbed her wrong, like a grain of sand between teeth.

"Rat?" she asked quietly, but Sirius heard and raised his head to stare at her with red-rimmed eyes.

"Rat," he repeated dully. "Peter was a rat. Here." From under the chair, he grabbed an old, crinkled newspaper and tossed it to her. Hermione flattened out the pages, watching the Weasley family wave back at her from the front cover. It was last year's issue, covering Mr. Weasley's lottery win and his family's subsequent journey to Egypt.

"There, on the boy's shoulder," Sirius said. "The rat. That's Pettigrew."

Hermione stared at Scabbers for a long time. Harry had mentioned seeing him over the summer. They'd laughed those words off then, but Hermione could find nothing funny in it now.

It was quiet, and Sirius didn't disturb her. He was lost in his own thoughts, sucked into a vortex of regrets that swirled in his mind like vultures.

"You were the dog," Hermione finally said, folding up the newspaper. It was the only logical conclusion she could come up, given the information about Peter. "At the Floo Terminal. And then the alley. You're an Animagus!"

"All of us were," Sirius confirmed, glancing up wry grin that broke through his sorrow like the sun breaches heavy clouds. He must have been a remarkably handsome man in his youth, Hermione thought. "Learned it in Hogwarts. Me, James...Peter." At Peter's name, Sirius grew somber again. Outside, Hermione could hear cars driving by, splashing over puddles. That would put her somewhere in muggle London. It must have rained in the early morning.

"I didn't kill Lily or James," Sirius continued. "I didn't betray them. All this time, I've been trying to find Peter ‒ the man who did. And I should have told Harry. They named me his godfather, you know? But after I got out, all I could think about was Peter. Getting my revenge. And it's not like I could have approached Harry, anyway. He would have never believed me. Just like no one else did. And I can't go back to Azkaban. I won't get out again. I'll die there, and Harry will still be in danger. But you! I know you: you're his friend, the muggle girl. I saw you with him in Hogwarts! You could pass a message to him, set up a meeting, somewhere safe. You will, right? You'll do that for me?"

Hermione bit her lip. Sirius gazed at her, imploring, and she looked away.

"I believe you about Peter," she said. "But that doesn't mean I trust you."

He laughed ‒ a broken sound. "But I already saved you," he pointed out. "What else do you want? How do I win your trust?"

Hermione glanced around the room, tugging the bedsheets closer to her body.

"Returning my wand would be a good start," she sighed, and then, after a moment, added wryly: "and my clothes."

 **. . . .**

Her clothes were gone. What had happened to them Sirius couldn't really say, so he brought her some other garments instead ‒ underclothes and an onyx-black dress that must have been the height of wizarding fashion some twenty years ago and honestly looked like something out of _The Addams Family._ Still, it fit her well. Which was exactly what Sirius said when she descended to the kitchen.

"It was Bella's," he told her. "Gods, what an evil bitch. Looks good on you, though. The dress, I mean."

Hermione thanked him for the unusual compliment, just in case. She looked around the kitchen as Sirius busied himself with making tea. It was dirty, grimy. There were bottles everywhere and trash in the corners. Still, beneath all that, the house had character. She could see it in the dull varnish and the arabesques on the handrails she gripped when she was coming down the stairs. The portraits on the walls, covered in dust, had gilded frames. One ‒ of an imperious-looking woman in her forties (her portrait was immaculately cared for) ‒ had glared suspiciously, but remained silent, following her passage with a pair of stern and judging eyes.

There was history here, among these ancient walls. It was grim and regal, laden with memories. People ‒ a whole family ‒ had lived in this place. Died, too. Hermione could feel their echo and the magic in the house, mostly dormant, slumbering like a dragon, waiting for its moment to waken and roar.

"Grimmauld Place," Sirius said, pouring two cups. "My family's home. Here." He handed her a steaming cup, pushing away several empty bottles of Firewhiskey to make room on the table. She took it gingerly, blowing on the liquid. Sirius needed a shower, she thought. And a shave. He'd look presentable then. Not murderous, like in the photos _The Prophet_ shared.

"What were you doing in the alley?" he asked. "Yesterday."

Hermione shook her head. She had no desire to talk about that. The liquid in in her cup sloshed around as she raised it to her lips and took a scalding sip.

"It was stupid," she said, instead of an answer.

"I'll say," Sirius guffawed, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes. Hermione looked down.

"Thank you. For...saving me. Otherwise, I would have…"

Sirius eyed a half-full bottle of Firewhiskey, letting her words hang in the air. "We all make mistakes," he finally said, grabbing the bottle. "Be glad yours wasn't costly." Ignoring the tea, he poured himself a glass.

"Cheers." They each took a sip, and then Hermione put her cup away.

"Tell me everything," she said. Sirius sighed. And then he began.

He concealed nothing, his tale a winding journey that began with his escapades in Hogwarts and led to the bitter experience of being betrayed by someone he counted a friend. Sirius glossed over his years at Azkaban after that; Hermione could see that even the mention of the wizarding prison unnerved him deeply. By this time, his tea was cold, forgotten; he was taking swigs right out of the bottle in his hands. When he reached the months after his breakout, she interrupted.

"You could have gone to Dumbledore. Instead of doing all this on our own. Breaking into Hogwarts. Stalking Harry. Finding Pettigrew. You could have had help."

Sirius, who had been recounting the moment he broke into Gryffindor Tower, snarled.

"Dumbledore," he spat. "Who let me sit twelve years in prison? I would have never betrayed my friends ‒ and he knew that! All he had to do…" She could see his hands shake. "One request to the Ministry. Three drops of Veritaserum. I would have been free. No. He did nothing. For all his brilliance, the man can be blind. So fuck him. Fuck Dumbledore." And then Sirius went on with his tale.

The last year had been hard, Hermione found out. Sirius got by with stealing food and rummaging through trash. The rest of his time he spent looking for Peter, although his method of search lacked any describable metric. Now that Peter was gone from Hogwarts, Sirius just went out and sniffed. Like a dog. As a dog. He'd taken over some of the animal's behaviorisms by now. Slept on the floor. Scratched himself. Pissed in alleys. He also drank. Sirius didn't actually say that, but Hermione just assumed by the view of the kitchen, with the empty bottles scattered everywhere.

She remembered how his face had seemed beastly to her when she'd first seen him in the alley yesterday. Well, that impression wasn't entirely off its mark. Azkaban had taken something from him. Stripped away a layer of his humanity, leaving atavistic traits behind, which he had to fall back onto to survive. Sirius had been forced to embrace the animal for years...and it showed.

She felt sorry for him. Still, she had to be careful.

"Is there anyone who can corroborate any of this?" Hermione asked. Sirius shrugged, but then raised his head in a moment of silent contemplation. "My house-elf," he finally said, slurring his speech a little. "Been here all this time. Knows I'm looking for Peter. Doesn't help, though. Insolent little creature. Wants me dead, probably, but he's bound by blood to serve the family. And, much as he hates it, that's me." Sirius smirked, crookedly, and then barked into the air: "KREACHER!"

Nothing happened. Sirius grumbled and tried again. On the third attempt, Hermione heard a distinctive pop and observed a gnarled house-elf, old as time, appear in front of them.

It bowed to Sirius, but Hermione couldn't call the action anything by mocking. "Master called?"

"I did. I did. You tell her what you know, Kreacher. Tell her everything. About me. Peter. Everything."

Kreacher turned to stare at Hermione. His eyes were wide, pale, reminding her of a fish that had been cast out of the ocean, but was still breathing. "The girl with the magic," he said with a crooked smile. "The blood that sings." Sirius rolled his eyes.

"You're going senile, elf. Just do what I told you to! Speak the truth!"

Kreacher grinned nastily. "Master wants Kreacher to say the truth?" he asked. "And then Kreacher can go?"

"Yes, you imbecile!" Sirius ordered. "Now get on with it!"

"Very well," Kreacher said, his voice cracking with vicious glee. "Kreacher will say the truth." Then he paused, looked directly at Hermione, and proclaimed: "The truth!" before disappearing into thin air, leaving Hermione giggling and Sirius staring with an open mouth.

"Gahh!" he yelled finally, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "Blasted elf! Useless!"

His words only made Hermione laugh harder. This entire situation was entirely too absurd! Going down Knockturn Alley, almost getting captured and raped, only to be saved at the last minute by a convicted felon, who was consequently outwitted by his half-crazed house-elf?! Insane! Her laughter changed, growing hysterical, leaving her breathless and with a sense that the walls were closing in. Sirius made a move to comfort her, but then jerked his hands back, looking awkward and ashamed. He glanced around helplessly and then noticed the bottle in his hands. "Here," he said gruffly, pouring her a glass. "It'll help."

As far as parenting decisions go, it was maybe not the wisest one, but between a girl who felt way over her head and a man who'd almost forgotten what it meant to be human, it seemed right. Hermione didn't even think about it. She just grabbed the glass with shaking hands and raised it to her lips, taking a big gulp. It burned her throat like wildfire. She started coughing, and tears rolled down her cheeks, which she swiped at angrily.

"It's an acquired taste," Sirius said sadly when she quieted down, all signs of hysteria absent. Hermione glared at him, but it was a half-hearted gesture, at best. She hadn't let go of the glass.

"I know something else that might cheer you up," Sirius suddenly said, leaning down to pick up a newspaper, which he pushed towards her. _**SCENES OF TERROR AT QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP,**_ proclaimed the headline over a swirling Dark Mark in a night sky. "Page eight," he added, getting up to leave the room. "I'll give you some time. Find me later."

Hermione leafed through the newspaper, pausing when she reached the page number Sirius suggested. There were several articles there; lost among them, with the length of barely a dozen sentences, was an account of a confrontation in Knockturn Alley, which left one man, Aldricks Gusley, the sole owner and proprietor of a bar called Hades' Rock, dead. The Aurors were investigating, but the tone of the article suggested that nothing much was expected to come from the inquiry. Hermione read the final sentences in a daze. There was a photo of the owner, this Aldricks fellow ‒ it was the barkeep that she had approached. The same one who had called out a price on her capture; the one that had lunged at her only to be blown away with a wave of her wand.

He was dead.

Absently, Hermione took another sip from the glass, rolling the amber liquid on her tongue. When the barkeep had grabbed her clothes, she had reacted in fear ‒ and fury. With distinct clarity, Hermione could recall her desire to hurt him. She had channeled that need into her wand, using a spell she couldn't ever recall learning. It was dark and it was powerful, and it had sent the barkeep blasting into a wall with a crack she could still hear. He'd tried to stand up, after, only to fall down again. There'd been blood pooling under his form.

Her head swimming from the alcohol, Hermione wondered when the horror would come. Shouldn't there be something torn in her soul, something weeping at the end of the man's life she'd taken?

But nothing cried. Instead, she felt content. He deserved it, Hermione thought, very carefully tearing out the article about the barkeep's death, ensuring there were no rips in the paper. She didn't know why, but she wanted to keep it.

Had Sirius been in the room, he would have observed an odd little smile twisting on Hermione's lips as she gazed upon the photo of the dead barkeep. It wasn't pleasant, that smile. Not something that belonged.

But Sirius couldn't see ‒ he was getting drunk in another room.

 **. . . .**

Hermione found him an hour later ‒ the article carefully tucked away in a set of robes she'd acquisitioned for herself. Sirius was brooding, staring at a spot on the wall, the bottle of Firewhiskey ‒ now empty ‒ clutched between his fingers.

Hermione's mind was clear now, although maybe a dab of sharpness from the alcohol remained. Sirius, however, was drunk. She could see it in his posture, and the sluggish way in which he moved when she entered the room.

It was the perfect opportunity.

"Before I connect you with Harry," she said, watching the way Sirius' eyes expanded in hope, "I'd like to know more about the war."

"What do you...wanna know?" he asked, licking his lips.

She was careful. Patient. She asked about the people involved: about Harry's parents, and the Weasleys, the Longbottoms...other families she'd come across in her studies, like the Maroneys and the Pirces, who'd also fought for The Order. Halfway through her interrogation, Hermione spied another bottle (rum, the label proclaimed) on a shelf near Sirius. She opened it and poured him a glass with a smile, making sure to keep it full as Sirius talked, taking periodic sips.

Eventually, Hermione, with a little flip in her heart, asked what she really wanted to know.

"I also came across another name," she said, watching him very carefully. "I wasn't able to find out much about her."

"What...what name?"

"Adriana," Hermione said. "Adriana Selwyn."

"Ah...that bitch," Sirius said. Hermione felt something cold run down her spine.

"Why…'that bitch'?" she asked.

Sirius shrugged. "What else could she be?" he said. "Came to us at the start of the war with...with...ah, I can't even remember his name. Blond bloke with curls. Pretty. Too much so for a guy, if you know what I mean. Anyways, said she wanted to fight for The Order. Said it wasn't right what was happening, and that she didn't support You-Know-Who's rise to power. Just wanted a quiet life, those were her words… Ha!"

"Ha?"

"James and I saw right through her. Slytherins always think they can be sneaky, but I grew up in a whole family of 'em. Spend a couple o' years with dear old Bella or my mother ‒ now that's a lesson for life. Can't trust 'em. Too much ambition, too little restraint. And always so arrogant. Naturally, we didn't trust a word out of her mouth."

"But Dumbledore…" Hermione cautiously began. Sirius laughed. "What did I tell you about Dumbledore?" he barked. "Blind! He let her in to The Order, sure. But that's just Dumbledore for you ‒ too trusting, except for when it counts." The last words came out as a snarl, as Sirius remembered once again the years he'd lost in Azkaban.

"Regardless," he continued, taking another sip from his glass, "Selwyn was good. We watched her like hawks, but she never slipped up. Always keen to help, she was. To assist. Tried so hard she barely slept, had these great bags under her eyes. Wasn't so pretty then. Merlin, even her boyfriend...Marron! That was his name! Yeah, even Marron dumped her. She looked so depressed afterwards, even I almost fell for it. But not James! Sharp man, my friend was. By best friend…"

"And Adriana?" Hermione inquired, before Sirius got sidetracked by his memories.

Sirius shrugged again. "Well, we knew Selwyn had some alterior motive to join up on our side. Why else would she fight against her family, her friends? We always had our eye on her, but could never get any proof...until James got that letter, that is."

"What letter?" Hermione asked, but Sirius ignored her question.

"Selwyn was spying on us!" he roared. "Delivering all our information right to You-Know-Who! That's why I called her a bitch ‒ and a lying, murderous, two-faced whore, when we confronted her!"

Hermione stilled. There was a strange emotion in her chest, and her blood ran cold.

"What...what happened?"

"What happened to her?" Sirius gloated. "Well, what usually happens to traitors in a war? We caught her sneaking away one night. She wasn't bad with a wand, Selwyn. But James was quicker. She Apparated away at the end, but those types of wounds? You don't live long, gouged in half."

Sirius said it like it was the most casual thing in the word. Hermione could barely breathe.

"So, James Potter…" she clarified.

Sirius threw up his arms in exasperation. "Why do you care?" he yelled. "Yeah, James killed her! And I helped him, so what?! It was a war. She was a spy. Bitch got what she deserved, and that's all there is to it. Now where's that bottle?!"

Sirius turned away, searching for another drink. He moved slowly, steadying himself with his hands.

He never saw Hermione raise her wand. Never heard her utter the words.

He just saw something green fly past his shoulder. The color confused him, for a moment, his drunken mind sluggishly appraising the situation, before coming to a single, horrible conclusion. Sirius swore and dove to the side, only to have his foot snag on the carpet, sending him down, where his head struck the edge of a chair with a resounding _crack._

The world tumbled. Winked out. Blood dripped from his temple, and Hermione stood there, frozen in horror at what she'd done, watching the fat droplets gather on the wooden floor.

Gather, just like under the barkeep, the night before.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: An Unquestionably Embarrassing Parallel**

Terrified, Hermione jerked her arm away at the last second. She didn't even know she could cast an _Avada_. By all rights, she shouldn't be able to. She had never studied it; furthermore, it was a powerful spell, requiring distinct murderous intent. And she didn't want to kill Sirius. She didn't! The barkeep ‒ that was self-defence, but this… Hermione had no idea where all the anger had come from, sweeping over her head like a thundercloud.

But she moved just in time, and the Avada went wide, whizzing over Sirius' shoulder. Still, it made him trip and fall and smash his head. He was knocked out instantly, blood pouring from the jagged wound on his temple. Hermione rushed over to cradle his head in her shaking arms. She didn't know any healing spells. She could maim or harm in a dozen ways, but healing...she'd never even tried to learn.

And now her hands were turning red, and she didn't know what to do.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she babbled, trying to stem the flow of blood. How could there even be so much of it in a person? It was a deluge. A red sea. A...

A small pop of apparition made her flinch. Hermione glanced up; Sirius' house-elf, Kreacher, appeared, looking immensely pleased. His happiness, no doubt, stemmed from his master's misfortune, but to Hermione he shone like a ray of hope. She wasn't alone in this.

"Help me!" she begged, but Kreacher only cackled with delight and barked, "Foolish pup! Kreacher will dance on master's grave and gnaw the marrow from his bones! Happy is Kreacher today! Delighted and thrilled!"

"But he's your master!" Hermione angrily cried out. "You must help him!"

Kreacher shrugged. "Must-shmust. I help him by leaving."

The young witch on the floor narrowed her eyes. Something feral escaped her throat, and then she lunged forward, quick as a viper, latching onto one of Kreacher's arms to prevent him from escaping.

"Let go!" Kreacher snarled, but Hermione only tightened her hold. The relationship between him and Sirius was belligerent at best, but there had to be something she could use to make the elf help her.

"I don't know why you and Sirius hate each other," she growled, thinking very quickly about what mattered to bound elves, "but he is the heir to the house of Black. With him dead, that ancient name will be gone, forever! Have you thought of that?! Who'll come in his place? Some third cousin that will promptly gamble away this estate and lose all this history?!" Kreacher quieted, and Hermione pressed on. "If Sirius does not sire a child, then the line will end, do you understand?!"

"Miss is offering?" Kreacher leered, and Hermione slapped him, hard.

"No, miss is not offering!" she hissed into his face. "Miss is reminding you of your duties, which you have apparently forgotten! Sirius is your master, elf, and that means your feelings don't play a role! So shut up and do as you're told!"

Hermione wasn't aware of it, but her last words came out infused with magic, which crashed over Kreacher with the force of an avalanche, bringing him to his knees. "Kreacher...Kreacher will help," the elf managed to croak out in a cowed tone, looking down so that he didn't have to stare into Hermione's eyes, which had turned dark.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Hermione let go of his arm. Her fingers had left marks. "Do you know Malfoy Manor?" she asked.

Offended, Kreacher actually bristled, "Of course Kreacher knows the famous–"

"Good. Go there and bring Narcissa Malfoy. Can you do that? Sirius mentioned there were protections on this house."

"Yes, Kreacher can show the way."

"Go then! Now!"

Kreacher vanished. Hermione waited, anxiously tapping her foot while pressing a cloth to Sirius' wound. Finally, after what seemed like ages, she heard the sound of footsteps. They were rapidly approaching; seconds later, Narcissa burst into the room.

"Hermione!" she exclaimed, rushing over and throwing her arms around the young witch. Hermione returned the hug with ferocity and sniffled.

"I have been so worried," Narcissa mumbled into her ear, distraught as only a mother can be over her child. "I felt you were in danger, but I couldn't find you anywhere! I even sent Lucius to the Weasley residence, but you were gone!" When she leaned back, Hermione felt a pang of guilt lance through her chest, because Narcissa's eyes glistened with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice full of regret. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"That's alright," Narcissa shushed her, gently tugging a hand through Hermione's messy curls, straightening them out. "You're alright, and that's all that matters." Again, she pressed Hermione to her chest, rubbing her hands along the girl's back. She hadn't slept all night, going crazy with worry and fear. Even Lucius had tread carefully around her. "Who's this?"

Hermione, still relishing in the warmth and relief she felt in Narcissa's arms, blinked and then exclaimed, "Sirius!"

"Did you kill him?" Narcissa was now looking down at her cousin with a strange expression, as if only recognizing him for the first time in years. "That's fine, dear. We'll dispose of the body, you don't have to worry."

"What?! No! He's not dead! He saved me! Can you heal him, please?!"

Narcissa inhaled, sharply. "He saved you?" she asked, taking out her wand.

"He did. I was in danger, there were these men chasing after me, and…" Hermione had started to babble, and Narcissa shushed her, leaning down to whisper incantations over Sirius' body. Strands of magic descended from her wand, congregating on the injury. Listening carefully, Hermione was able to deduce what some of the spells did. One was a diagnostic. Another clotted blood. "He's in no danger," Narcissa finally concluded. "It's just a flesh wound."

Hermione found that hard to believe. "But, there's so much blood," she sputtered, realizing that she'd managed to get some on Narcissa's clothes, ruining them.

"Head wounds tend to be that way," Narcissa explained, flicking her wand over Sirius and seemingly unconcerned about the state of her expensive robes. "Most look more dangerous than they are."

"So...so he's alright?"

"Well, he's drunk beyond measure," Narcissa sniffed, "and has a mild concussion on top of that, but, otherwise, yes, he is fine. He'll need some blood-replenishing potion, and several good meals wouldn't do him any ill, but that's all. In fact…" she paused, and then said, "Kreacher!"

The house-elf, who was quietly waiting behind her, limped forward.

"Yes, mistress?"

"Go to the Manor, ask Linny for a bottle of blood-replenishing potion, then return."

"Of course, mistress. Kreacher is happy to serve; if he had only known that young miss was sending him to the Manor, he would have obeyed with no–"

"Kreacher, _now._ "

Kreacher disappeared.

"You...know him?" Hermione asked, watching as the gash on Sirius' temple stitched itself together.

"Of course I do." Hermione was surprised at the warmth in Narcissa's voice. "Kreacher's old; he served my grandparents when they were young. Passed through the whole family. I remember staying here with my sister when I was a child. Oh, Bella loved playing with him: she'd grab him by the ears and chuck him up as high as she could. Such carefree and happy times."

"Bellatrix...she's in Azkaban, right?"

"Been there ten years now," Narcissa said, sadly. For a moment, she seemed lost in her thoughts, but then she turned towards Hermione and, with a twinkle in her eyes, added: "You're wearing her dress, you know?"

Much to Narcissa's amusement, Hermione blushed. "It's alright," she laughed, waving her hands. "It fits you well, although it is a little behind the times."

"Sirius gave it to me," Hermione explained.

"Sirius…" Narcissa glanced down at the man on the ground. "I've put him under a charm – he'll sleep till morning. While he's resting, why don't you explain what happened?"

Hermione sighed, helped move Sirius over to a bed, and then started with the letter from Rosoled.

 **. . . .**

"I wasn't able to cast an Avada till I was twenty," Narcissa mused an hour later, when Hermione had finished telling her story. She contemplated the young witch across from her with a peculiar expression; for a brief moment, almost uncatchable, there was a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

"I don't know what came over me," Hermione said. "It was like...I just got so angry all of a sudden."

"Well, he did confess to murdering your mother," Narcissa offered. "I'm sure that came as a shock."

Hermione quietly sipped her tea and wondered. What would her life have been like if Sirius and James hadn't killed Adriana? Would she have been happy? Grown up a muggle-hater, just like the Malfoys? Been friends with Harry and Ron?

"But, do you think it's true, what he said?" she finally asked. "That Adriana was a spy for You-Know-Who?"

This time, it was Narcissa's turn to shrug. "I never heard about it," she said. "But it's possible. Merlin knows the Order didn't like Adriana – they might have just pushed her away. Or maybe she was a spy from the beginning; or even completely innocent. Without her, who can really say?"

Hermione hummed, lifting the teacup to her lips.

"But it's the letter that worries me," Narcissa continued. "It's a remarkable coincidence: James Potter and Sirius Black receive a letter that prompts them to attack Adriana, and then, years later, you get one leading you into a trap. It seems someone is intent on destroying the Selwyn bloodline."

"But why?! What reason could someone have to hate us so – even me?!"

"A grudge. Money. Some form of retribution. Could be anything. Lucius has been trying to lead subtle inquires–" Narcissa, noticing Hermione's expression, paused. "You're unhappy with my husband," she said.

"Of course I'm unhappy!" Hermione exploded. "He was...you _know_ where he was; what he was doing! Those people the Death Eaters attacked – they were innocent! They didn't deserve it!"

Narcissa sighed. "You're talking about the muggles."

"Yes, about the muggles! They're people too, you know!"

"They are dangerous, dear."

"Oh, really," Hermione scoffed. "And how exactly was that family of muggles dangerous?"

"Historically, muggles have–"

"History shouldn't be used as a justification to attack innocents!"

"Look," Narcissa said, pinching the bridge of her nose with an annoyed expression, "this isn't the time to discuss muggle crimes." Sensing Hermione's indignation, she raised a hand. "In any case, Lucius joined the group to protect them."

"Protect muggles?" Hermione's tone became incredulous. "Lucius? You expect me to believe that?!"

A look of hurt flashed over Narcissa's face. "Are you saying I'm lying to you?" she asked. Hermione's cheeks colored. She looked down, chastised, and said, "I'm sorry. I know you've done a lot for me. You must think I'm rotten: getting into so much trouble, worrying you…"

"You're not." Narcissa reached over, grabbed her hand. "You acted a little impulsively. It happens. Just, please, don't put yourself in any more danger."

"I'll try," Hermione promised, finished her tea, and then, suppressing her disbelief, asked: "So Mr. Malfoy was there to...protect the muggles?"

"Well, I won't pretend that it was for their sake, darling. It's simply that given the political climate, it would be highly inconvenient for our faction to be blamed for any deaths, muggle or magic. Unfortunately, some of our associates can be difficult to restrain and their tolerance of muggles runs even lower than ours. So when Lucius and I heard of this little, ah... _get-together_ being planned – and it was at the last minute, dear, or we would have warned you –, we agreed that he'd participate to ensure that no lines became crossed. And he was successful. The muggles got tossed around in midair, and some hexes were thrown about, but, otherwise, no one was really injured."

Hermione considered Narcissa's words for a moment and then sniffed, "That's still not very nice."

"It's better than being dead," Narcissa quipped. "Think of it as a form of sublimation."

"Sublimation? Freud would be thrilled."

"Indeed." Narcissa swirled her tea, then eyed Hermione and slyly remarked: "Draco returned home sporting quite the shiner."

Hermione, feeling her face grow red, looked down and mumbled, "Did he say anything?"

"No," Narcissa chuckled. "He was remarkably tight-lipped about the affair. You wouldn't happen to know anything about it?"

Hermione stared into her teacup. While flustered, she also couldn't help but feel relieved that Draco hadn't chosen to spill any of her secrets.

"You know," Narcissa suddenly said, changing topics, "that Lucius and I went to Hogwarts together? He used to drive me mad – strutting around the castle like it was his private domain. He was quite the peacock; still is, in some respects. Anyways, one day in fifth year, someone managed to pull a prank on me. Cast a gust of wind that caught my robes, disregarded the protective charms on them, and gave half the Great Hall a full view of my knickers."

"No!" Hermione gasped. "I'd be mortified!"

"And I was. Trust me, darling, I was. But I was also confident in the prankster's identity – Lucius had been following me around for the past month you see, and I'd become rather suspicious of his intentions. So once I got my robes under control, I marched up to him, and slapped him right across the face! Didn't even use my wand – forgot all about it! Oh, you should have seen his expression – stunned beyond measure! Completely flabbergasted."

"But was it him?" Hermione eagerly asked.

"No," Narcissa laughed. "Lucius was entirely innocent, as it turned out! I broke his nose for nothing, and felt rather guilty about it later. In pure Slytherin fashion, he used that against me, of course."

"What did he do? Did he try to blackmail you? Make you do his homework?"

"Oh, much worse," Narcissa replied, and then, with a roguish grin, explained: "He forced me to go out with him. On our first Hogsmeade trip together his nose was still a little bit crooked, but that didn't prevent him from trying to snog me senseless. Still, I managed to keep his hands from wandering too much...for the next four dates, that is. But, after that, the proverbial gates fell, if you know what I mean… Why are you so flushed, darling? Is it hot in here?" Narcissa was laughing again, while Hermione, whose countenance had now come close to rivaling the color of a boiled beet, mumbled something incoherent into her empty teacup.

"The lesson is," Narcissa continued, not even bothering to hide her amusement, "to never let a Malfoy man get the upper hand on you, because–" she leaned in for emphasis "–you just might like it!"

Hermione wondered if it was possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. Surely her experience at the bar yesterday was preferable to this? She had absolutely _no_ desire to think about whatever parallels Narcissa might be drawing. Nope. No desire at all.

Fortunately, a rustle from upstairs broke up her train of panicking thoughts. Both witches glanced up sharply, but it was just Kreacher, who had descended to the kitchen.

"Master sleeping soundly," he declared, moving to collect the empty bottles that still littered the room.

"Good," Narcissa said. The humor from moments before had fled; now her eyes looked grave. "You know what to do?"

"Yes, Mistress Malfoy. Kreacher will tend to Master and when Master wakes Kreacher will enforce the idea that he fell down while drunk. A complete accident."

"Excellent. The alcohol and the concussion should be enough to muddle his memory. He didn't actually see you cast the spell?" This question was addressed to Hermione.

"No," she quietly replied.

"Then that's settled. Although it's a pity you changed your mind, darling." Narcissa's voice became cold. "It's what he would have deserved for killing Adriana."

"He saved me, though. Without him…"

"He did indeed," Narcissa admitted, rubbing her temples. Kreacher had disappeared, following previous orders to clean up the house. "To think of it: Pettigrew is alive, my cousin is out of Azkaban…And, speaking of Azkaban, you said he escaped as a dog? The Dementors couldn't see an animal?"

"No. Sirius said the photo of Pettigrew gave him strength to change and slip away."

"So, hate. Revenge. And being an animagus… He didn't mention any details about the prison?"

Hermione shook her head.

"That's disappointing," Narcissa said, with touch of sadness to her eyes. "I'd like to see Bella again…"

"I can ask him some more," Hermione cautiously offered. "I'll be in contact with him again. Sirius wants to meet Harry. And...I should introduce them, I mean, it's the right thing to do; Harry ought to know that Pettigrew is spying on him, that he has a godfather who's innocent, but…" Hermione bit her lip.

"But?" Narcissa gently probed.

"Harry's dad killed my mum! That one act changed everything my life would have been! How do I even talk to Harry without thinking about that?" Hermione looked down in distress. Narcissa reached over to hold her hand again.

"Your friend is still your friend," she softly declared. "He had nothing to do with this. But, it is understandable if you need some time to figure out your emotions. Just know that, whatever you decide, dear, I'll stand by you."

"Thank you," Hermione smiled.

"And now," Narcissa said, giving Hermione's hand a squeeze before letting go, "it is time for us to leave. We need to return you to the Weasleys. They're already suspicious due to Lucius' visit, no doubt, so you'll need a story as to where you went. Can you think of one?"

"I was…I went to a friend's," Hermione said. "I was very traumatized by my experiences at the Quidditch Cup, and I needed someone to talk to."

"Good. See that they believe you. But we'll have to stop by the Manor to get you a change of clothes first, because going to the Weasley's in Bella's old dress might just send the wrong impression."

Despite everything that had happened, Hermione grinned.

 **. . . .**

Molly and Arthur accepted her with full understanding. Deceiving them so easily made Hermione uncomfortable, but she understood that lying was a necessity. Finding out that Harry's father was directly responsible for her situation really drove home the point that, besides the Malfoys, there was no one she could trust. So she wove her tale of falsehood without too much regret and then joined her friends.

Ron, his grudge over Scabbers completely forgotten now, spent the whole day retelling the story of how _Lucius Malfoy_ had stopped by, claiming that, as a governor of Hogwarts, he was ensuring that all students were safe in the aftermath of the attack.

"Probably wanted to know if you were hurt, more like," Ron reasoned. "Would have warmed his black little heart, no doubt, to have a muggleborn dead. Sorry, Hermione."

Hermione shook her head, indicating it was okay, and Ron continued, "Dad nearly got into another brawl with him. Fred and George wanted to try out some new spells, and not the innocent kind. The gall of that bastard, showing up here after what he did to Ginny."

The only one who seemed suspicious of her behavior was Harry. Hermione had returned his cloak along with a stammered apology, but she hadn't quite been able to meet his eyes. Harry waved her concerns away – he didn't mind sharing his things with his friends – but Hermione had shifted uneasily and then, throwing him a guilty look, promptly fled, mumbling something about catching up on her studies.

Harry stared after her retreating form with a frown, but Hermione didn't see it.

She left the Weasleys a day later, claiming her parents were worried and that she had to return home. The last part, at least, wasn't a lie. Malfoy Manor _was_ home. She didn't know when exactly those feelings of belonging had snuck up, but there they were.

The first thing she did when she arrived was locate Draco and offer an apology for her action. Unfortunately, her gesture was met with a glare and a huff. Draco didn't even say anything, just turned around and stomped away, proceeding to pointedly ignore her for the rest of the summer, which irritated Hermione for two reasons. One, she actually did feel guilty about punching him; and two, Hermione really wanted to practice her Legilimency (reading people's minds seemed like a useful talent to have), and Draco was the only partner available.

But Draco, Hermione reasoned after a week, was just being a stubborn, overly sensitive git, and, _really,_ he should just get over it! It was just one punch! From a girl!

Her coursework also became a source of vexation. Hermione found that she just couldn't focus, and the book on wizarding politics remained in her trunk, forgotten. She took to taking long walks on the grounds, watching Crookshanks stalk the peacocks, who, protected by the charms as they were, never even bothered to spare him a glance, much to the annoyance of the half-kneazle.

Wandering around, Hermione kept trying to imagine what would have been different if Sirius and James hadn't killed her mum.

The answer, of course, was everything.

She didn't send Sirius any letters, and he, without access to a owl, couldn't contact her either.

As summer drew to its end, Hermione departed for Hogwarts still feeling confused and completely uncertain of how to act towards her best friend.

* * *

 **#BreakOutBella #BellaIsInnocent #DeathEaterLivesMatter**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: Alone, or Partners in Crime**

If there was one good thing that started off the new school year, it was Draco turning into a ferret.

Not that Hermione took any pleasure in his humiliation, but it did give her the opportunity to ambush him in the Hospital Wing, where he was sent overnight to recuperate from a pair of cracked ribs.

Stuck to a bed and Skele-Gro mending his bones, Draco had no choice but to accept her apology – even if it was just to get her out of the Hospital Wing before anyone saw the two of them together. Still, Hermione refused to leave until he also promised to assist her in Legilimency practice. Gritting his teeth – both from the unpleasant experience of his bones growing back together _and_ from the mass of hair that kept falling onto his face whenever Hermione leaned over his body (which he was sure she was doing on purpose, just to annoy him) – Draco finally acquiesced, and Hermione sauntered away, looking quite smug.

To make matters worse for Draco, before leaving, Hermione leaned down and pressed her lips to his cheek, which kept the poor Slytherin up till the early hours of morning, ensuring he was grumpy, tired, but strangely exhilarated for the entire next day. By mid-morning, Pansy, fed up with his behavior, commented that either he was a study in contradictions or Madam Pomfrey had slipped him some _very_ good medications, and, if that was so, where could she get some? Draco just grinned in response.

Unfortunately, it all went downhill from there.

The first heralds of misfortune were the dreams. Hermione didn't know what to attribute them to: whether it was leaving the Manor for Hogwarts or all the recent revelations coming to haunt her, but almost every night she came to experience recurring nightmares. Sometimes, in her sleep, she saw Adriana, bloodied and torn, being chased down by two ominous shapes. Inevitably, the hunt would end with Adriana's capture, but when Sirius and James raised their wands to cast the final spell, the dream would shift and it wasn't Sirius and James anymore, but Harry and Ron, laughing as they tortured her.

Hermione would wake up drenched in cold sweat, but that dream was hardly the worst.

There were other ones – ones where she dreamed of blood, and snakes coiling around her, talking in tongues, and a forest, littered by dead animals: rats, mice, birds; their skeletons blanketing the ground like freshly fallen snow.

The mood swings didn't help either.

Hermione could be doing something completely innocuous – like reading a book – and suddenly she'd experience a flash of anger, hot as wildfire. She could grow irritated, annoyed, or even happy for no reason. She'd snap at people; two weeks into the semester, Neville melted his cauldron in potions, and she actually hissed at him to get his act together, else he'd remain an embarrassment to Gryffindor House till graduation – assuming he even made it that far.

Even the Slytherins were shocked at such an outburst. There were whispers over dinner: boys started discussing monthlies, which quickly antagonized a good portion of the female population. The resulting hexes drew some of the attention away from her, but Hermione noticed Dumbledore eyeing her from his seat at the teacher's table. She didn't like his look.

Professor Moody also seemed to be following her everywhere, although Hermione came to think that was merely paranoia. His rotating eye was just too creepy, and while it seemed to stare at her during class, he also saw everything else the students were up to.

Two days after the Neville incident (Hermione had apologized, but her housemate still looked wary and hurt), McGonagall summoned Hermione up to her office and very kindly asked if Hermione was having any troubles. It wasn't just her behavior – her grades weren't meeting expectations as well. Hermione mentioned some vague family drama and left with the realization that unless she wanted to continue drawing attention to herself (with all the resulting consequences), she needed to act, quickly.

It was Draco that helped, although not on purpose.

Scheduling their Legilimency/Occlumency sessions was difficult, mostly because Hermione had to find times when the odds of Harry opening the Marauders Map were close to nil. Usually, this happened during the evenings, when he was playing chess or exploding snap with Ron. As this lasted several hours, Hermione could sneak up to the Owlery, tie a little script to Ares – Draco's owl – and have him meet her somewhere they wouldn't be found.

Occlumency, she found, eased her temper and seemed to quell the intensity of the nightmares. Thus, Hermione began clearing her mind and doing Occlumency exercises before bed – although there were still times when she woke up in the middle of the night, her heart thundering and afraid for no reason.

Still, by mid-October Hermione managed to stabilize her behavior, and even her grades returned to their original untouchable status, much to the displeasure of several hopeful Ravenclaws.

There was one other thing that managed to gnaw on her mind, however. During all this time, Hermione not once approached Harry to tell him about Sirius or Pettigrew. In fact, she took to avoiding her friend as much as possible, partly because she didn't want to lash out, and partly because she just didn't know how to act. Every time Harry looked at her, Hermione felt guilty and frightened and angry and...there was a myriad of emotions and some of them didn't even make any sense! So she shied away from him, using the library as a refuge.

Harry, after all, had Ron to keep him company.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **October 31**

" _Harry Potter."_

Harry glanced around the Great Hall in a daze, but discovered that there was no help to be found. Ron looked as shocked as he was, and Hermione...well, Hermione was avoiding him _,_ staring down into her dinner plate as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

The fact that Harry's name had just come out of the Goblet of Fire didn't seem to worry her at all. In fact, with the exception of a small frown on her lips, you could say she didn't even care.

"I didn't," Harry said, willing for people – for anyone – to believe him. "I didn't enter my name." But his words fell on deaf ears. No one responded, and Ron just pursued his lips.

"Mr. Potter," came from the teacher's table. "If you please…"

Harry looked around, hoping to find some sympathy, but his housemates stared back with a mixture of jealousy, anger and disbelief. The Hufflepuffs had begun to jeer. "Hermione," Harry said, with a kind of desperation in his voice. Hermione heard him.

And then turned away. Harry flinched.

The look on his face must have said it all.

"Oohh, Potter's gonna cry," floated up the nasal voice of Pansy Parkinson, accompanied by snickers from her fellow Slytherins.

"Harry, come," Dumbledore urged, throwing a pointed look at the Slytherin table, which silenced the most vocal individuals. Harry rose and walked through the Great Hall with a hollow feeling in his chest. It was familiar, in a way. He'd known it for years before coming to Hogwarts – the Dursleys had made sure of that.

Harry glanced back before leaving the Great Hall. He looked, searching for even a scintilla of compassion, and upon finding none, Harry turned away with the realization that he was, once again...

Alone.

 **. . . .**

What followed were the most miserable weeks of Harry's life. Nobody believed in his innocence; on the contrary, the whole school had branded him a liar, an attention-seeker, and a brat. And as for his so-called "friends"...

Ron made his position very clear in the first evening, but what Hermione did hurt more. Harry could comprehend the reasons behind Ron's actions, but Hermione's rejection, unexpected and enigmatic as it was, came as a brutal jab to the gut. Despite everything, Harry had believed that she'd stand by his side; that Hermione, of all people, would see past the lies.

And his inability to figure out why increased the pain tenfold. Why was Hermione so distant? What had he done? Was it his fault? Had he wronged her in some way?

Harry brooded over such questions while assisting Hagrid with his gamekeeper duties. It was hard work, but the half-giant was the only one willing to share his company these days.

"Dun't ye worry, 'Arry," Hagrid would say, doing his best console the despondent wizard. "They'll come 'round. Have some cake, it'll cheer ya up." The cakes possessed the texture of rock, but at least the gesture was nice.

Apart from assisting Hagrid, Harry took to taking long walks around the lake. Being ostracized meant he had a lot of free time. He spent much of it gazing at the giant squid and skipping stones across the icy waters. The small rocks would fly across the lake's surface, bobbing up and down, and Harry would always follow up one toss with another, throwing until his fingers turned blue and his hands had gone numb from the cold.

Numb was good, he realized. Numb things didn't hurt.

Although, sometimes, he'd get angry. He'd kick the gravel on the shore and turn his face towards the heavens wondering how any of this was fair. Why had he been cursed like this? Why couldn't he be like Malfoy and just coast through life on his parent's name and fortune? Why'd he get stuck with the Dursleys instead of someone who actually loved him? Why, why, why?

The questions were endless, and answers were nil.

Everything he did, he did alone. Ate alone, studied alone...even in the Gryffindor common room, there was a bubble around him that everyone would carefully circumnavigate, as if he were some leper.

Which, in a social sense, Harry was. In one glorious evening, his circle of friends had been reduced down to zero.

In time, Harry's misery grew into a pit of hopelessness and despair. His thoughts kept gravitating towards the tournament. If he died, Harry wondered, would anyone care? Would they cry at his funeral? Would Hermione and Ron feel guilty about abandoning him – right at the moment when he needed them most?

Or maybe no one would come. It'd be empty, and only the wind would whisper through the leaves, mourning a child that was doomed from the very start.

At least he'd get to see his parents. That would be nice.

Harry's schoolwork suffered; in class, instead of paying attention, his eyes would just roam, staring at everything and, at the same time, nothing in particular. Even the series of articles penned by prominent investigative reporter Rita Skeeter, regarding a group of French Quidditch players that had been recorded on video cameras by a group of muggles, didn't budge him out of his misery, although it was the only thing the whole school talked about for an entire week. Britain, Germany and Russia had been forced to send their obliviators to France just to deal with the crisis.

For Harry, that didn't matter. The days became difficult to greet. At the Dursley's, he had been alone, but losing friends he once had turned out be much, much worse.

It's unknown where such anguish would have led him, if not, one day in potions, Harry didn't notice something decidedly strange.

It was the second week of November, and Gryffindor had double potions with the Slytherins. The class had lined up to collect snakeroot from Snape's private stores – snakeroot, an extremely poisonous perennial herb, was a requirement for their assignment and not sold to students.

Harry ended up standing behind Hermione and Pansy Parkinson. And this is where the first oddity occured.

Pansy wasn't sneering at Hermione. Instead, she was _staring_ at her.

And it wasn't the habitual "you're beneath me, you filthy mudblood" stare. It was an incredulous "I can't believe this is actually happening" look.

Parkinson's expression was entirely unguarded and lasted maybe several seconds – but Harry caught it, and it distracted him just enough from his own misery that he became curious as to what had sparked such a reaction from the usually uppity pureblood.

Pansy quickly schooled her features to the usual nonchalance, but Harry noticed she kept sneaking glances at Hermione's robes – so that's where Harry looked too. At first, he didn't see anything out of the ordinary, though.

The line shuffled forward. And forward. And forward.

And then Harry blinked.

Hermione's robes were identical to Pansy's.

Vaguely, Harry remembered Hermione spilling something on her usual robes yesterday – she must have worn a spare set.

Now, there wasn't a lot of variety in school robes, but some striations did exist. Most of the school body shopped at Madame Malkin's or Olivie's; poorer students visited Knockturn Alley; and the purebloods, or at least the affluent ones, would have their clothes prepared by custom order from specialized tailors – after all, shopping off the rack was the ultimate faux pas for scions of high society. Imagine the horror if anyone found out.

The robes were all black, and it was hard to see, but if you looked closely, you would notice that the expensive garments were softer and silkier than the rest; they weighed less; and the charms woven into their cloth regulated temperature and guarded from a variety of hexes. They cost a lot. _A lot._

These were the type of robes Parkinson wore. Malfoy, too.

And, apparently, so did Hermione Granger, the know-it-all, muggleborn witch. The incongruity of such a fact is what must have stunned Pansy in the first place. And intrigued her. Parkinson looked like a hound on a scent now; or, as a more appropriate simile would go: like a Slytherin that's sniffed out a secret.

This shook up Harry just enough. Over the next few days, he silently observed Parkinson watching Hermione. She did it stealthily; the only reason Harry noticed was because he knew where to look. Eventually, Harry, figuring he really had nothing to lose, decided to follow Parkinson's example and initiate his own investigation. It became somewhat of an obsession, actually, giving him the strength and motivation to ignore the rest of the school and his own dreadful circumstances.

So, during classes and over lunch periods, Harry started watching Hermione. It didn't always work out: sometimes, she'd intercept his gaze and then quickly glance away while shifting guiltily in her seat. But this only served to pique Harry's interest. And so, together with Pansy Parkinson, he observed.

Now, on the surface, it didn't seem like there was anything to see. Hermione appeared to be her usual self. She studied a lot – more than anyone in their year, probably the whole school. Raised her hand first in class, spouted off answers to questions like she was reading from a book, and turned in essays that were always at least a foot longer than required.

But the more Harry watched, the more he became convinced that something was just... _off._

For example, it wasn't just Hermione's robes that were suddenly posh. The set of quills she used – and Harry checked this via order catalogue – cost fifty-five galleons. Her parchment was five sickels a piece. The ink was also of the top variety.

Now, Harry knew Hermione was far from poor – she'd mentioned her parents being dentists on several occasions – but this was beyond wealthy. Writing out exchange rates and averaging costs, Harry calculated that Hermione's various school effects (this included her robes, cauldron, potions equipment, writing utensils, and so forth) came to a total of at least 2,000 pounds, and those were just the things he knew of.

That was _insane._

Pansy, from the nearly perpetual narrowing of her eyes, had apparently reached a similar conclusion.

Then there were Hermione's study habits.

Now, while spending an obnoxious amount of time in the library wasn't unusual for her, it was the way she did it that Harry found odd. Hermione would always occupy the most remote section, and if anyone neared her, she'd quickly shut her books and switch parchments. Whatever she was studying, she obviously didn't want anyone to see.

Harry briefly considered using his cloak to try and sneak up on her, but the logistics of such an endeavor (Hermione sat in a tight corner, her back pressed to the wall) made it difficult. So he settled to watching from afar, sometimes passing Parkinson in the stacks, who had caught on that she wasn't the only one playing spy.

Parkinson didn't say anything, though. Just smirked and made sure the _Potter Stinks_ badge on her robes remained on prominent display. Harry ignored her and focused on the mystery instead.

The strangeness, he concluded after several days of pondering, wasn't anything new. In fact, Hermione had started acting weird since before the start of the term – right after the Quidditch World Cup, when she had taken his cloak to, as Hermione later claimed, visit a friend. But now that Harry thought about it, that explanation made no sense. If she'd gone to a friend's – why use the cloak? Why sneak out? And why had Lucius Malfoy stopped in to check on Hermione, which she'd later shrugged off as nothing? Harry hadn't heard of Lucius visiting any other muggleborns. Just Hermione.

After that, Hermione had begun avoiding him. To his shame, Harry registered that fact only now; in fact, Ron's absence and several days of reflection made it terrifyingly clear just how much effort Hermione had put into ensuring that he wouldn't notice her evasive behavior. It was scary, actually, how careful and meticulous she'd been. But now, looking back, Harry understood he should have seen it sooner, because despite her best efforts, Hermione couldn't conceal the truth in her eyes. Just like her, they had changed. Once warm and comforting, they had become colder than chips of ice orbiting dead planets in the far off reaches of space.

They made him shiver.

The days moved on. Harry continued to just...exist, bleakly, and did his best to ignore the taunts and jeers that trailed him in the corridors. The Hufflepuffs were particularly vicious; a house often disparaged by the rest, they had finally found their moment of glory with Cedric Diggory...only for it to be stolen away at the last second. The Slytherins, of course, were more than eager to support any Harry-tormenting, although – and this was rather odd too – Malfoy and his cronies never joined the bullying. In fact, apart from creating and wearing the _Potter Stinks, Support Cedric Diggory_ badges, they hadn't antagonised Harry in any way at all – for reasons Harry was yet to comprehend.

The feeling in his gut said it was connected to Hermione, but rationally he knew that made no sense.

Unfortunately, as much as Harry wanted to focus on Hermione and her mystery, something else had begun to nag on his mind.

The first task was steadily approaching.

Harry felt anxious just thinking about it, and distracting himself with Hermione's actions worked less and less as the calendar days inched ahead. Soon, there was just a single week left. Then only six days. Five.

And four.

 **. . . .**

Harry was sitting in a corner of the common room, ostensibly working on his transfigurations assignment, but, in truth, his quill hadn't touched the parchment in over an hour. To his right, maybe twenty feet away, Ron, Dean, Lavender and Seamus were playing a game of exploding snap. Once, he would have been a part of their group. Now, not so much.

Thoughts of the upcoming task weighed heavily. Harry tried to distract himself by scanning the room, but it was a pitiful attempt, at best. He didn't even register Hermione's presence until she was halfway down the stairs from the girl's dorms. Harry felt her gaze settle on him and instantly looked down, pretending to be busy with his homework. He even picked up his quill to make it seem like he was writing something, but really he was watching Hermione, who paused for a moment, meticulously inspected the room, and then, seemingly satisfied with the results, quickly proceeded towards the exit.

The moment she was out of view, Harry threw down his quill and dashed up to his dorm with a thundering heart. After ensuring he was alone in the room, he tugged out his Invisibility cloak and the Marauder's map. He'd followed Hermione's movements via the Map several times already, but the results had been less than impressive. This time, however, Harry knew it would be different. He could feel it: there was just something strange about the way Hermione had moved, all clandestine, sneaking out like she didn't want to be noticed.

Tonight was the night.

Harry bundled up his cloak and the map, and then jogged down several levels to an unused classroom, which he quickly entered, making sure to lock the door, and settled in to wait with the map spread out on a table.

Hermione Granger was walking up to the Owlery.

Harry adjusted his glasses and peered closer. Hermione's name, as usual, appeared a bit smudged and even flickered in and out several times. Harry didn't know why – he'd only noticed the strangeness a few weeks before – but he'd be damned if he'd let some malfunction get in the way of his surveillance. So he paid close attention to Hermione's movements: watched as she reached the Owlery, spent several minutes inside (sending a letter, perhaps? But to whom?), and then quickly descended, heading towards the…

…the dungeons?

Harry swore and grabbed his cloak. The dungeons were on the other side of the castle and if he wanted to observe anything beyond mere names, he needed to get closer. So the cloak went around his shoulders, and the Marauder's Map found a place in his hand. The door clicked softly as he unlocked it, and then only a breeze carried through the corridors as Harry stealthily advanced towards whatever secrets Hermione was trying so hard to conceal.

 **. . . .**

Hermione's dot on the map led him to a disused corridor located under the Black Lake. It was chilly, and curtains of moss clung to the walls. There was a distinct dampness in the air, making his breaths come out as fog. Only a single lantern provided any illumination, and even that was so dim that Harry could hardly see four feet ahead of him.

Hermione had disappeared into the only classroom, closing the door behind her. According to the map, she was alone in there, and Harry, hidden under his cloak, decided to wait.

Ten minutes later, wearily trying to recall the wand movements behind a heating charm, Harry noticed someone moving on the map. The name made him blink in surprise. Draco Malfoy had turned into this part of the castle and was rapidly approaching the corridor Harry was hiding in.

It had to be a coincidence.

Still, as Malfoy's name inched closer, Harry grew more and more anxious. Impossible scenarios stampeded through his head, but none of them made any sense; after all, what would a pureblood like Malfoy want to do with someone considered as filth by his social class? There was still room for explanation, though. Maybe they'd arranged a duel? Or possibly the Slytherin just had other business in the area?

The dungeons were notoriously vast, so Harry had to wait another five minutes before the sound of footsteps became audible. Malfoy came from the other direction, walking briskly. He paused underneath the lantern, snuffed it out with a spell, and then continued in the darkness, lighting a _Lumos_ only after he reached the door.

Holding his breath, Harry watched Malfoy lean down to the doorknob, mutter something while tapping it with his wand, and disappear inside.

It was official, then: for whatever reason, Hermione Granger was meeting Draco Malfoy in the dungeons.

The corridor was impossibly dark; the blackness so potent that Harry couldn't even see his own hands. There were sounds, though: a continuous drip of water and a moan of air, circulating over cold stone. Still holding the map, Harry reached out to touch the wall, and, using his hand as a guide, he began to slowly advance in the direction of the room Hermione and Malfoy had entered. He figured it was about fifty paces from his position, but being unable to judge the length of his step made him wary. For a moment, he considered casting a lighting charm, but then decided against it: what if Hermione or Malfoy noticed?

A minute went by. And then another. Harry continued forward, his hand sliding over the damp, rough surface of the wall. Surely, he should have reached the door already? And did the door have a handle? He couldn't even remember.

Harry was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he didn't even realize when he bumped into something soft. It was a terrified squeak that made him jump, and then something – _someone_ – barreled into him and he went down, limbs flailing and the Marauder's Map flying from his grasp as his head hit the stone floor with a resounding _crack_.

Harry hissed with pain and bit down on his lips so that he wouldn't cry out. Whoever had fallen on top of him didn't help either; they just kept pushing and shoving, trying to get away, which only resulted in both of them getting tangled in Harry's cloak.

"Stop it!" Harry whispered, trying to free himself, but that just made things worse.

"Potter?!" Harry, much to his horror, recognized Pansy Parkinson's voice. "What are you doing here?! _Lumos!"_

Harry, blinded by the sudden light, squeezed his eyes shut. "Put it out, put it out!" he hissed, but Pansy was beyond listening to his pleas. "An invisibility cloak!" she said quietly, but with wonder. "Well that explains… How do you even have one?! They're incredibly rare!"

Harry opened his mouth to inform Pansy just how far she could go with her questions, when a familiar sound made him freeze.

"STUDENTS IN THE DUNGEON CORRIDORS?!" Peeves' voice boomed through the dark. "WANDERING AFTER DARK?! ICKLE LITTLE FIRSTIES, LOST AND LONELY, OR OLDER ONES LOOKING TO BE... _NASTY_?!"

Pansy quickly canceled her spell. It became dark once more; only in the distance, beyond the nearest turn, was a faint, but rapidly approaching shimmering from Peeves' ghostly form.

Pansy swore and dove under the cloak. "What are you–" Harry began, but started coughing when she shoved a hand against his mouth. "Shut it!" Pansy hissed. "Unless you _want_ to get caught!"

It was too late to argue; Peeves was flying through the corridor, and all Harry could hope for was that Pansy had done a decent job of covering them up with the cloak. Apparently, she had, because Peeves didn't see them; but he did pause five feet away, peering up and down the corridor. Heart thumping like a drum, Harry stilled his breaths. Time seemed to stretch, but Harry, instead of worrying about Peeves or Hermione or the lump on his head or even getting caught by Filch, suddenly found his mind preoccupied with drastically different things.

Because Pansy Parkinson was lying right on top of him.

He could feel the pulse of her heart. Her breaths fell warm neck, and her hair smelled like apricots. Harry had a crazy urge to lean in and sniff it – which he fought off, just barely. Pansy was an unpleasant girl, he knew. Together with Malfoy, she'd mocked and belittled him since day one. She'd been mean, had a knack for discovering insecurities, and her sharp tongue could cut like glass.

And, at this particular moment, all those things didn't matter.

What suddenly _did_ matter was that Pansy was soft and very feminine and, as became readily apparent, had a pair of very pert breasts, which were now pressed firmly into his chest. And it was just impossible not to react to that. Which Harry, with an overwhelming sense of mortification, did.

Pansy must have sensed it. She inhaled sharply and then wiggled on top of him, trying to find a better position, which only made matters worse. Harry was glad it was dark, as his face had now acquired the shade of an angry traffic light. Under the cloak, it was now very, very hot.

"Where, where, where…" Peeves muttered from his roost, but Harry wasn't paying him any attention. Instead, he found himself listening to Pansy's breathing, which had grown heavy; the huskiness resonating in a primordial corner of his brain, sending legions of goosebumps whizzing up his spine. Pansy wiggled again, and this time he found it to be a very pleasurable movement, focused around the hips. Harry couldn't resist and gently skimmed his fingers over Pansy's thighs, wondering what it what feel like to–

A very sharp pinch brought him back to reality.

"If you move your hand even one inch higher, Potter," Pansy growled very quietly into his ear, "I'll hex off that... _thing_ poking me in my thigh. And I'll make sure that it doesn't get easily reattached."

Harry felt like a bucket of ice-cold water had been tossed down his shirt. It had all been in his head. Gods, how stupid. He wondered if it would just be better to die right here, than face whatever hell Parkinson was no doubt dreaming up for him in the coming days.

Fortunately for him, Peeves distracted Pansy's murderous intentions. Flying down the corridor, he came to a halt before Hermione and Malfoy's room with a triumphant _whoop_ and then reached forward.

A sharp zap of magical energy shot through his arm.

Harry didn't know if poltergeists could experience pain, but judging by extensive Peeves' swearing, yes, they could. The shade, cursing wards and doors alike, zoomed past the couple on the ground, heading towards safer havens. With him gone, the corridor became dark once again.

"Finally," growled Pansy, and tried to stand up, but Harry held her back.

"What are you–" Pansy began, but them fell silent. She'd heard it too, now – the door in the corridor creaking open.

" _Lumos,"_ Hermione's spell echoed over the sound of dripping water. Harry craned his head to look, but couldn't see anything beyond Pansy's hair.

"You think he's gone?" he heard Malfoy ask.

"Yes, but why would Peeves even be here...are you sure you weren't followed?"

"Of course I'm sure," Malfoy scoffed. "I'd know if someone was tailing me."

In the dim light of Hermione's _Lumos_ , Harry noticed Parkinson's lips curve into a smirk.

"I'm just making sure. We'll have to find a new place now." The voices were getting louder, approaching Harry and Pansy's location, and Harry remembered that the Marauder's Map had flown out of his hands when he'd fallen. He bit his lip, desperately wishing for it to go unnoticed.

"I'm not walking up to Gryffindor Tower."

"Of course you're not." Harry could imagine Hermione rolling her eyes. "Don't worry, I'll find something close. I'll owl you tomorrow maybe? We didn't get much done tonight."

"Only because you started about–"

"And how couldn't I?" Hermione paused right beside Harry and Pansy's prone forms. "Dragons, Draco! Dragons! I can't believe you waited till evening to tell me!"

Hearing Hermione call Malfoy by his first name made Harry slightly nauseous. Judging by Pansy's expression, he wasn't the only one feeling sick.

"Couldn't exactly approach you in the Great Hall, though, could I? 'Hey, Granger, just got a letter from my father and he told me–'"

"Oh shut up." There was a soft smack. "But I am grateful."

"Gonna run off and tell _him_ now?" Harry strained his ears, trying to catch every last word.

Hermione sighed. "First thing in the morning. Gods, I've been such a bitch. Thank you for laying off him though – he's having a rough time as it is."

Harry frowned: who were they talking about?

"Mhhm." Malfoy didn't sound too pleased. "C'mon, you swot, let's go before Peeves decides to come back. With our luck tonight, he'll bring Filch along."

"You're right." Harry heard footsteps again. "And if I'm a swot, then you're a pasty-faced ferret."

"Bookworm."

"Mama's boy."

"That hurt, Sel. That really hurt."

Hermione and Malfoy turned the corner, and their voices faded in the distance. Pansy waited another fifteen seconds before springing up. Harry was finally able to take a full breath and sat up, squinting his eyes when Parkinson cast a _Lumos_.

Which is why he didn't see Pansy's hand flying towards him.

"What was that for?!" he exclaimed, rubbing his stinging cheek.

" _That_ was for being a pervert, Potter!" Parkinson hissed into his face.

"A pervert?!" Harry, ready to fight tooth and nail for the last shreds of his dignity, went red. "You're the one who fell on top of me! And then kept...wiggling!"

"Oh yeah?! So you just thought you'd cop a feel while you had the chance?! Although," Pansy sniffed, sticking her nose up in the air, "I suppose it's only a natural reaction to my fair looks."

Harry met such blatant narcissism with an open mouth and then lunged forward when he noticed that Pansy had used his moment of distraction to pick up the Marauder's Map from the floor.

"Hey, give that back!" he yelled.

"What's this: a map of Hogwarts?" Pansy said with wonder. "With people on it? Well, aren't you full of surprises, Potter. An invisibility cloak, this...what else you got?" She eyed Harry speculatively and, much to his surprise, handed back the map without argument.

"Err...thanks," Harry said, quickly putting it away.

"So Granger and Draco…" said Pansy, letting her question drop. "Who would have thought? I'd say it was romantic, if I weren't disgusted."

Harry found himself in the odd position of agreeing with Pansy Parkinson. "You were following Malfoy?" he asked instead.

Parkinson looked at him like he was stupid and snapped, "Of course I was following him! What did you think: I just decided to take a stroll in the dark by myself after curfew? Are you always this dim, Potter?"

Harry opened his mouth to bite back, but then shut it when Pansy raised her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't mean that," she said, with a hint of remorse. "Look, Draco's been acting strange all term. And Granger...well, you know for yourself. So in order to find out what those two are doing, we're going to have to work together."

"How do you figure?" Harry frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Harry, still angry, "why would I want to work with you? I can figure this out by myself."

Pansy considered his words for a moment and then smiled, except, it wasn't a very nice smile; no, in fact, it was all teeth. "Let me put it to you this way, Potter. Either I get to use your map and cloak and eyes in Gryffindor common room, or else a little birdie will inform Professor Snape about what you're doing, and, trust me, he _will_ find a way to confiscate all your precious little treasures."

Harry glowered, but Pansy continued, unabated. "Besides, whatever Granger is doing, she's doing it with Draco. And that means – why are you grinning? What...oh, I didn't mean it _like that!_ You're disgusting, you know that, Potter? Worse than Goyle." Despite her protests, Pansy started grinning too. "I feel like a loon. This is ridiculous."

"I know what you mean," Harry responded, and, for the first time in weeks, there was a smile on his face. Somehow, having a heart-to-heart with Pansy Parkinson in the depths of the Hogwarts dungeons had turned into the high point of his month.

"Take it from a Slytherin, Potter," Pansy said, once their laughter died down. "Secrets are power. Granger and Draco obviously have a big one. So I keep an eye on him, and you look after her. We share what we find, and, who knows, maybe we'll discover something to use to our advantage. Merlin knows you need one. So, how does that sound?" Pansy extended her arm. "Deal?"

Harry looked at her, considered the offer for a moment, and then shook Pansy's hand. What did he have to lose?

"Deal."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: A Brief Study of Peacocks**

Winter arrived with the first week of December, gusting in on winds that shrouded the world beneath a mantle of snow. Hogwarts, much to the delight of the student body, transformed into a fairytale castle – more than it already was, at least. Magical lights adorned the banisters and parapets, swaths of bristling ivy lined the winding halls, and multiple roaring hearths, decorated with mistletoe and stockings, created an atmosphere that was both cozy and festive. Even the faculty was affected: McGonagall kept letting students leave her classes early, Flitwick spent entire lessons demonstrating how to charm a teapot to sing carols, and Professor Snape, while still boasting his usual disgruntled disposition, didn't even deduct points from Neville when the hapless fourth-year melted his third cauldron for the year.

Life couldn't get any better, mused Harry. He had survived the first task. He had regained his friends. And now, from his seat at the window, he'd successfully secured an alluringly indecent view of Pansy Parkinson's legs, which were propped up on an adjacent chair in such a way that her school robes fell away, revealing a fair bit of creamy thigh. This was Harry's second rendezvous with the Slytherin witch (third, if one counted the initial encounter in the dungeons), and while their investigation into Hermione and Malfoy's behavior hadn't progressed much beyond speculation, he still found himself anticipating these little tete-a-tetes with a great dose of eagerness, as they permitted him the opportunity to ogle the comely pureblood. Covertly, of course.

"Potter, your staring rivals the subtlety of mating hippogriffs. I know my legs are divine, but please, do try and keep it in your pants, will you? It's cold outside: just might freeze off."

Okay, maybe not so covertly.

Thoroughly mortified, Harry jerked his eyes up just in time to glimpse the edge of Pansy's lips, curled in a smirk, before they disappeared behind the copy of _The Prophet_ she was reading. The figures in the photographs – Minister Fudge and his cohorts, responding to a rapid series of questions at a press conference – pointed and laughed. Harry silently branded them all as traitors and glared.

Pansy observed his reaction with a high dose of amusement. "Not that I mind, of course. I mean, what else would I expect? Some intelligent conversation? A flattering compliment or two? Maybe even a case of Belgian truffles – which I adore, by the way? No." She sighed dramatically. "With Gryffindor boys, it's all the same: keep your expectations low so as to avoid disappointment. _C'est la vie,_ as they say on the continent." She turned the page, dipping her head in a mocking display of self-pity at life's inequities.

Scowling at the unsubtle barb, Harry quickly snapped back with a sarcastic quip of his own. "Gryffindor _boys?_ Known many, have you?"

Over the top of her newspaper, Pansy shot him a flat glare and decided to drop the theatrics. "Rude. But if you must know, I went out on a date with Cormac earlier in the year."

Harry, who'd been preparing to continue the argument, paused. This was news to him. Well, almost everything was, considering the complete and total isolation he'd lived in prior to the first task, but, for some reason, this particular piece of information struck a rather unpleasant chord in his chest. It took him a few moments to formulate a response and, when he did, he tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Almost disinterested, even. "Oh," said Harry, making a show of checking his nails. "And how was it?"

"Terrible." Pansy shook her head in disgust. "McLaggen is a crossbreed between a peacock and an octopus." The topic was obviously irritating for her, and she buried her head back in the newspaper, pretending to be captivated by the article. She didn't see Harry smile, slyly.

"Peacock and an octopus?"

"Mhm. When he's not boasting about himself or his family, he's trying to–" Pansy broke off and made a grabby motion with her hand before returning to reading. "As I said: terrible."

"So why go out with him at all? Surely, you were aware of his tendencies…"

"Father insisted," Pansy sighed. "He's looking for…"

"...For?" Harry prompted, but Pansy merely shook her head. "It's not important." She turned the page again, obviously considering the subject closed, and then asked an unpleasant question of her own.

"What did Granger tell you about the dragons?"

Harry turned back to the window, his own sigh heavy on his lips as the events of the past two weeks flashed before his eyes. First, Hermione, approaching him with apologies the morning after her meeting with Malfoy. Then Hermione, again, practicing with him for hours and hours to ensure he'd survive the first task, because he'd have to face ' _Dragons, Harry! Dragons!'_. Finally, he recalled her tearful relief when he returned, triumphant and alive.

She'd seen so honest, remorseful. So eager to help. And yet…

"She lied," Harry said, the words like coal in his mouth. He looked down: far below, at the base of the tower, a group of students was tossing snowballs. Their carefree cries reached him all the way up here.

"What did she say?" prodded Pansy. Testing the mudblood had been her idea, and she was curious if it had yielded fruit. "How did she explain that she knew about the dragons in advance of the tournament?"

"Research. She claimed she read up on previous tournaments, cross-referenced all the first tasks, and discovered dangerous magical beasts to be a common element. Then she told me she went out into the Forbidden Forest and saw dragons."

"When, in reality, we know that that information came from Draco–"

"Via his father, I know," Harry cut her off curtly, as he recalled the moment in the dungeons when Hermione had thanked Malfoy for sharing the contents of his father's letter. It made the whole thing even worse: Hermione, who had returned to stand so staunchly by his side, had lied without even batting an eye.

Harry's despondency must have filtered through his tone, because he suddenly felt a hand on his back. He looked up in surprise, meeting Pansy's eyes just inches away from his. "The fact that she lied doesn't mean she doesn't care for you," she told him, in a voice that both surprisingly comforting and firm. "Down in Slytherin, we lie to each other all the time. And yet we stand by our allies if they need us. So, chin up! We have a secret to figure out, and we can't do that if you're sniffling."

"I'm not sniffling!" Harry protested, and then immediately scowled, realizing he'd fallen straight into the witch's trap. Basic logic dictated that one can't wallow in misery while arguing, and Harry was arguing. Visibly pleased with his reaction, Pansy shot the Gryffindor a triumphant grin and sat back down. Pure Slytherin, that girl was.

"So Granger's a very capable and convincing liar," Pansy concluded, collating this new information into her mental dossier. "And she has clandestine meetings with Draco in the dungeons. Say, you don't think somebody could be impersonating her? Polyjuice potion, maybe…"

Harry shook his head instantly. "No. The mannerisms, gestures, behavior – it's definitely Hermione. She's just much more cunning than I expected." Abruptly, he recalled the events of his first year at Hogwarts, when Hermione had lied to the faculty, set Snape's robes on fire, and petrified Neville, all while successfully maintaining the naive facade of a rule-abiding bookworm. After a few moments of contemplation, Harry voiced his conclusion in a firm tone. "She can be devious, actually. Very much so."

Pansy pierced him with a sharp gaze of her hazel eyes and then nodded. "Alright. So we'll have to be careful around her. You observe her behavior – but subtly, while I focus on Draco's. Keep looking at the map, too: if they set up another meeting, we need to be there. Agreed?"

The proposition sounded reasonable, and so Harry nodded, before returning to watch the snowball fight. The room fell into a companionable silence after that, dotted only by the periodic rustling of Pansy's newspaper.

"Say, Potter," she broke the quiet a couple minutes later. "You live with muggles, right?" The unexpected question made Harry blink in surprise. "Err, yeah." Glancing over at the Slytherin, he saw she was intently staring in his direction.

"They're not...actually dangerous, are they?"

The question was so unexpected and baffling that Harry had to spend several moments formulating a response. "I guess it depends?" he finally said. "Why are you asking?"

"You haven't been following the news?" Pansy began and then rolled her eyes. "Of course you haven't. Here. See for yourself." Neatly folding her newspaper, she flipped it around, displaying the front page, where the bolded title ' _ **FRENCH FIASCO CONTINUES: MINISTRIES SCRAMBLE TO REASSURE POPULACE'**_ had been plastered over the top.

" _The Prophet,"_ she declared, "is usually just a Ministry mouthpiece, but Skeeter is just eviscerating Fudge. And the picture she's painting isn't too pretty."

"What's this about again?"

"You need to get back in the game, Potter. It's about those idiots who got caught by muggles playing Quidditch in France! They were observed by an entire group, and the authorities didn't react in time, and so a bunch of obliviators from different countries had to Floo in and assist those incompetents in the French government!"

"So it's fine then?" Harry concluded with a frown. He didn't see the problem.

"Well that's what Skeeter is writing about!" Pansy exploded, shoving the paper under Harry's nose. "Apparently all those obliviators forgot to destroy some muggle camera or something, and now this _veedeo_ of people playing Quidditch is on some muggle _intranet_ thing, and millions of muggles have seen it! _Millions!"_

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, what's the Ministry doing?"

"Fudge is claiming there's nothing to worry about. He says the muggles are convinced its a hoax. But I don't know. I mean, they're just muggles, Potter, but Skeeter wrote ' _millions.'_ That's insane! How can there be so many?!" Managing to appear affronted and disgusted at the same time, Pansy wrinkled her nose, adding, "I guess that's just what you do without magic: wallow in your own filth and make babies all day. Degenerates. How do you manage to survive in their midst, Potter? I bet it's horrible. Is it horrible? Tell me."

Flummoxed, Harry couldn't come up with an immediate answer. On the one hand, many of things Pansy just said were blatantly false – and a direct consequence of the pureblood community's complete isolation from the muggle realm. Pansy, Harry reckoned, had never stepped beyond the magical enclaves; she'd never seen automobiles or planes or crowds of people making their daily commute in the crowded underground. Her only exposure was through her parents and peers, and so, just like Malfoy, she parroted the bigoted views of their closed majority.

But, on the other hand, her question about _his particular life_ with muggles stung sharper than a sudden jab in the gut. It left him breathless and hurting, ushering in a host of unwanted memories – mostly images of his past at the Dursleys. There was Dudley, chasing him with Piers and the gang on one of the notorious Harry Hunts; Uncle Vernon, going ballistic and bellowing that he'd never amount to anything; and finally Aunt Petunia, perpetually ridiculing her own sister – his mother – and that no-good husband of hers. Hundreds of memories, all of his miserable childhood, reared their ugly heads and reminded Harry that not only were the Dursleys such terrible people, but that no other muggle – not his teachers or peers or even the neighbors on the street – had ever stepped in to make his life more manageable. And so while Lord Voldemort had been responsible for the death of his parents, it was actually the Dursleys – and the entire muggle world around them – that had turned his existence into a living hell.

And so, filled with an anger and hollow spite, Harry said, "Yeah. It's pretty bad."

"Knew it!" Pansy crowed. "Mudbloods like Granger might get so self-righteous about it, but once they come here, to Hogwarts, they're more than content to spend three-quarters of the year away from their dirt of a family. In fact, I bet if the school allowed students to stay over the summer, every one of them would opt to remain. Well, by Slytherin, that actually makes me feel bad. It's not the mudbloods' fault they were born into such squalor." In a rare moment of introspection, Pansy allowed her guilt to seep through and looked at Harry with pity. "I guess it's not your fault either. You got stuck with the muggles too, when you should have been here, with us. Ugh. Now I feel even worse. I've been treating you like shite all these years, and it's not even your fault. I'm sorry."

Harry, feeling a blush creep onto his cheeks, shifted awkwardly. "Err, it's alright."

"No! It's not alright! Here, sit with me. Tell me more about the muggles. I want to know everything."

When Harry hesitated, Pansy reached up to grab him. "Talk!" she instructed, pulling Harry down beside her. "I won't bite. Promise."

Acutely aware of the sudden proximity, Harry took a breath and tasted apricots. Pansy nudged him in the side; her wide eyes, glistening in the fire of the lanterns, held not the usual malice or calculating contempt, but a genuine curiosity with just a smidge of regret.

Drowning in their depths, Harry began to speak.

 **. . . .**

The next meeting turned out to be a bust, because Malfoy got apprehended by Filch. The greasy-haired caretaker caught him en-route to his evening rendezvous and dragged him by the ear to Professor Moody, who promptly assigned a whole week's worth of detentions for being out after curfew. Filch was ecstatic; Harry, Pansy, and Hermione were not, albeit for very different reasons. While the self-proclaimed spies were expressing irritation at the sudden roadblock, Hermione was downright furious. Whatever she was doing with Malfoy was obviously important, because she spent the entire following week sulking while muttering very foul things about Filch (as well as his parents and whole extended family) when she thought no one was listening.

And when Filch was admitted to the Hospital Wing several days later with a nasty case of cure-resistant boils, Harry quickly put the two and two together. Most of the student body blamed the Weasley twins, but he knew better. He would have never considered Hermione capable of hexing someone out of sheer spite, but she had and she did. Harry quietly filed that thought away, just in case.

Their next opportunity arrived five days prior to the start of Winter Break.

Harry almost missed it, too. Engrossed in a game of chess, he didn't see Hermione sneak out. Harry realized his error only when Pansy's owl nearly rammed into his head, swooping down with a hastily-penned note that tumbled from its claws. "Oi!" cried out Ron, as the chess pieces went flying. "What's this all about?!" He was further peeved when Harry muttered some lame excuse before dashing up the stairs to their dorm.

"There's no need to sulk!" Ron yelled at his retreating form. "You've only lost three in a row!"

But chess games and losing streaks were the farthest thing from Harry's mind. After retrieving the cloak and Marauder's Map, he raced down the stairs and turned his steps towards the direction of the Owlery, where Pansy had instructed him to meet her. She intercepted him several levels below the rookery itself, just two corridors away from the room where Hermione and Malfoy had already sequestered themselves.

Pansy did not look happy. "She's warded the place with detection spells!" she raged into Harry's sweating face. "And I'm not familiar with them – I can't take them down! What are we gonna do, Potter?!"

Harry swore. Compared to the dungeons, this part of the castle was much more densely populated, which was probably the reason why Hermione had taken the extra precaution. Which also meant that there was no chance of spying via the hallway.

But the hallway wasn't the only point of entry, he realized. And Hermione – for all her smarts – just didn't appreciate the diversity magic had to offer. How it expanded possibilities. Which meant...

"I've got an idea!" he panted. "C'mon!" Grabbing Pansy's hand, he tugged the protesting witch back towards Gryffindor Tower. Stashing her near the entrance to the common room, he sprinted to retrieve the one thing that just might let them peek in on Hermione's massive secret.

 **. . . .**

" _This?!"_ Pansy gritted through her teeth, several minutes later. " _This_ is your idea? Have you gone mad?"

Harry gazed back at her horror-stricken expression and calmly informed her, "If Hermione's warded the corridor, then there's no possible way we're sneaking past. But she would never consider the windows. It's just not how she thinks."

"Yes, _because she is in a tower_ , _three hundred meters off the ground!_ And you want to...want to…"

"Fly up there," Harry finished, sporting the widest grin. He hadn't flown in ages, and was looking forward to the whole affair. But Pansy hardly shared his merriment. "Fly up there," she repeated hollowly, following Harry's movements. When he mounted his new Nimbus 2010 series, she turned a slight shade of green and shook her head. Well, who'd have thought, mused Harry. Just like Hermione, she detested flying. Birds of a feather: really, the height of irony.

He tried hard not let his amusement show.

"That. Is. _Insane."_

Sighing dramatically, Harry agreed. "I guess you're right. It _is_ insane. So I'll just have to go up by myself. I'll tell you everything, of course – later, when I return." His cocky grin spoke volumes, aggravating the snobby witch just enough.

"Oh, shut up!" she snapped, overcoming her fears in a bout of anger to quickly lower herself behind him. With her her arms circled 'round his waist and her nose flattened into his back, Harry's spirit soared.

"If I fall, then I'll haunt you forever, Potter. I'll be worse than Myrtle, I swear."

Kicking off, Harry smirked, yelling, "Hold on!" The windows opened soundlessly before his wand, and then they passed through the arched frames and burst out into the wintery landscape beyond.

The air was crisp, and whistled as it sped along the nimble form of the broom. Fluttering through their robes, it sang of unrivaled freedom as they soared. Pansy, who had shut her eyes before the plunge, felt its breath on her cheeks and unwillingly peered out from under her eyelashes.

And gasped.

Hogwarts sprawled out below like some mythical sea-beast, a legend spoken of in hushed whispers among the common folk. A thousand dazzling lights circled its mighty form, concealing more than they showed. Nestled to the castle's stony bosom, the Black Forest stood tall and ominous, proudly swathed in its frigid coat of snow. High above, over the buildings and the wilds and whole wide world, the eye of some grandly monster – kind, beneficent and all-knowing, but a monster nonetheless – blinked languidly from behind its cover of clouds. Dousing the world in periodic darkness, it made the shadow from the Beauxbatons carriage whisper and groan as it stretched across the snowed-in pumpkin patches towards the icy waters on the lake, where the jib and the reefed mainsails of the imposing Durmstrang vessel gently accepted its touch, sighing in the breeze. The magical sight sent chills up the spine.

...It is unsurprising, of course, that muggles, those who inhabit the nearby towns, don't go here. Wicked, they call these ruins. Dangerous. The Devil sings in the wind.

They are blind, my friends. To Harry and Pansy, this place was the quintessence of life.

Up they flew, higher and higher, over the spired towers and mansard roofs, the courtyards and quads, the gilded peaks, and ancient halls – they passed the length of the castle, capturing tiny glimpses of Hogwarts life as it whizzed by, quicker than fireflies darting through the night. There was a pair of students: his hair raven black, hers tumbling locks of sandy blond, framed in a lantern's light as they embraced near the window, in a cozy nook where no one should have seen or disturbed the brief moment of privacy. Elsewhere, a group studied, heads buried in thick, musty tomes that hid the arcane. Some first years, hurrying to reach the common rooms before curfew, huffed from exertion while cursing the ever-shifting stairs…People chattered and laughed, kissed and cried, sat by hearths, sipping from mugs of hot cocoa as they read books or simply rested, exhausted after a trying day… They lived their lives, carefree, content, or maybe beholden by personal worries, but seeing them like this, from the outside, all together, made something clench in Harry's heart. He found his vision turning blurry and had to blink away the sudden moisture clouding his eyes, because, at that moment, the truth was glaringly obvious: Hogwarts was his home. He would fight for this castle, as a place for his friends and his foes, fight for it with every gasping breath, because even prats like Malfoy deserved to be a part of it.

"There it is!" shouted Pansy over the wind. Harry shook his head, glad for the distraction. Pansy's hands were still wrapped around his sides, fingers buried in his robes, and he realized that they wouldn't be able to stay out here for long. While their outerwear was heavy and warm (and Pansy's robes even contain comfort charms), their extremities remained unprotected from the biting weather. His cheeks, for example, had already turned numb with cold.

Still, Harry angled the broom in the direction Pansy indicated, circling the Owlery Tower twice before locating the room Hermione had occupied. He approached it slowly, trying to sense if there was any kind of magic guarding the windows. If there was, neither he nor Pansy could detect it.

"Closer, closer!" Pansy urged, nearly jumping from excitement, which Harry echoed. Whatever Hermione was doing – all her lies and half-truths and omissions – it would all become clear in just a few moments.

Full of trepidation, he maneuvered the broom below the window and then slowly, very slowly so that they wouldn't be seen, inched it higher. Pansy's fingers dug into his sides, and her breath felt hot on his neck. She shakily exhaled when they finally reached the position. The window frame was just at the level of their eyes and Harry carefully peeked over its lower edge.

And he saw…

Saw...

"What _are_ they doing?" Pansy broke the silence after a full minute of staring with a voice that vacillated between confusion and disbelief.

"Ugh…" Harry shared the sentiments fully. For weeks, he'd imagined this moment. He'd pictured Hermione sparring with Malfoy; studying with Malfoy; or even, as revolting as it was to consider, snogging the living daylights of out that pasty face. But his ruminations had never included the pair doing...this. Which was nothing. Nothing at all.

"I dunno," Harry whispered, gazing at the perplexing sight before him. He had a perfect view of the duo, in fact: both sitting in chairs across from each other, stiller than statues. And that was it. No wands, no books, no snogging. Just staring and sitting.

This was rather anticlimactic.

"You think someone cursed them?" Pansy whispered into his ear. Her teeth had begun to chatter from the cold, and she gripped him tight.

"No idea." Now that the adrenaline of their flight had died down, Harry felt the numbness in his hands beginning to spread. His glasses had fogged up as well. From behind him, he heard Pansy rustling in her robes and then whispering a spell – a very mild warming charm. In this weather, it wouldn't hold for long, but they couldn't risk any stronger magic. Magic was usually detectable, and the more potent the spell, the easier it could be sensed.

Still, this gave them a momentary reprieve as they sat, shivering. Neither Hermione nor Malfoy stirred, and if not for the gradual rising of their chests, Harry might have wondered if they were breathing at all. After five minutes, Pansy quietly cursed and nudged him in the side. "Pull us up a bit higher!"

"They'll see!"

"No, they won't! Just do it!"

"Fine!" Harry angled the broom up, moving higher until Pansy whispered, "Stop!" Clutching Harry with one hand, she reached out towards the window and muttered, " _Alohomora._ " The lock clicked; Harry and Pansy froze. The odds of them being seen were at their highest now.

But neither Hermione nor Malfoy, who had both apparently abandoned this world for their own little realm, moved at all. With discovery absent from the cards, Pansy breathed a sigh of relief and then mouthed, "Help me!" into Harry's ear. Harry understood her intentions instantly: if they could pull the window out, then they'd hear whatever was going on inside.

As they perched precariously near the top of the tower, with the winds buffeting around them, pulling the window open was a difficult task even for a Seeker. Pansy, holding on to Harry for dear life, was almost no help at all. Harry grimaced and, using the wall for support, pried his freezing fingers into the window frame. Magic was out of the question here. While _alohomora_ was a relatively simple spell of the telekinetic variety, moving a whole window frame would surely nudge the room's occupants out of whatever weird trance they were currently in.

And so, cursing silently in his head, Harry dug in with his fingers, and almost managed to get ahold of the window when a particularly strong gust of wind nearly knocked them off the broom. Harry fumbled, paling, and gripped the handle with both hands, trying to maintain control of the Nimbus, which had begun tilting to the side. It was an arduous task. The wind grew in strength, howling around them like some ravenous beast, snapping at the students' robes, intent on smashing them into the castle wall. Flurries of snow swatted at Harry's face, leaving him blind and deafened by the roar of the elements. Acutely aware of the precipice below, he focused all his energy into controlling his flight and battling the weather with all the years of his Quidditch experience.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, nature relented. The tempest dulled its anger, and the storm subsided, becoming but a breeze once more. Gently, it brushed at their robes, as if apologizing for the brief tantrum. It left Harry breathless and Pansy trembling with fear. She had pressed herself against him, clutching the wizards in front like a lifeline.

"It's ok," Harry exhaled, once his breathing was under control. "We're fine."

Pansy whimpered. "I hate this. I'd never even be in this stupid situation if my dad hadn't–" She broke off, falling silent.

Harry waited for her to elaborate, but when nothing more came forward, he nudged the broom back in position, where he could get a grip on the frame. "Once more," he cajoled, after checking that the occupants still hadn't noticed their presence. "Just a little bit. We got this."

Pansy, obviously still scared, nevertheless stretched one of her hands forward, grabbing onto the frame with Harry.

"On three," he said. "One, two...three!"

They both pulled: carefully, so as not to completely dislodge the frame, but with enough force to get it moving. After a few moments, it worked: the frame budged, swinging soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. "Shh!" Pansy hissed, letting go. Harry felt exuberant. Even though the winds were picking up again and it was so cold that his bones had probably turned to ice, the chance to hear Hermione's secrets was finally in reach.

In hindsight, he should have prepared better, though.

Sensing the remnants of Pansy's warming charm seep away, he settled in to wait once more, praying that Hermione and her partner would wake soon. And for once, fortune smiled upon him: after only a few minutes, he heard voices. They were indistinct, at first, but then became cleared as the pair inside moved closer to the window.

"–I still think you shouldn't. Black is dangerous, or unstable, at least."

Harry froze. Finally!

"Let's not argue again." Hermione answered. She sounded tired. "I owe it to him."

"Potter." Malfoy practically spat his name. "It's always about Potter with you. But fine. You want to continue with this foolishness, be my guest! But when Black reveals your entire charade–"

"Draco…"

" _What?!_ "

"Don't be that way. Lighten up. C'mon, you were so much better at the shields today. Your work shows: you have a gift!"

Harry's eyes almost popped from shock. He didn't know what was more astounding: that Hermione Granger was buttering up Draco Malfoy, Slytherin bully extraordinaire, or that it actually worked. He imagined the blond was puffing up like some peacock.

"I have been practicing," the Slytherin, successfully distracted, stated in the most pompous way possible, which reminded him of Percy. "But you've improved a lot too. I could hardly detect some of the probes!"

"Thanks," Hermione giggled coquettishly, much like Lavender, actually. "You know I couldn't have done it without you," Hermione continued, her voice thick as butter. "You've been a terrific help, Draco. It's a shame we can't do this more often."

"Yeah…" Malfoy agreed, and then coughed. "That reminds me: something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Yes?"

"It's just that. Well." Draco cleared his throat again. "The Yule Ball is approaching. And I was thinking that–"

"Draco, you know we can't be–"

"No, no, I know, of course. I was just wondering if we could meet up later and, um, dance. If...if I could have a dance, I mean. Or maybe not a dance…" He grumbled something indistinct. "I don't know, this was stupid, I'm sorry, forget about it–"

"No! _No!_ I...I rather much like the idea, actually," Hermione confessed, and from the tone of her voice, Harry gathered she was blushing. "We _could_ sneak out early, and I doubt anyone would notice. And then meet up somewhere. Not in the dungeons, though. Or the gardens. Or–"

"I was thinking the rooms by the library. No one will be there. I had mother send me a music box, so we'll, um, have music."

"Oh. That's a great idea! You put a lot of thought into this, Draco," Hermione giggled again. Harry grimaced: he thought the laugh sounded shrill, but Malfoy must have liked it, because he laughed too. "I did. I did. So, I'll owl you the details later then. We can even have another session maybe?"

"That'd be awesome! I'm really looking forward to that, Draco."

"Great. Let's head out then. It's getting cold."

"I know! It's freezing in here. I don't understand–" Harry paled, jerking the broom away from the tower in one swift movement. Pansy, who hadn't been anticipating the sudden maneuver, cried out and dug her fingers into his sides as they accelerated, flying away before Hermione went to check the open window.

"Wow." Pansy spoke, after they were a safe distance away. Her tone was laced with disdain. "Well, that was quite something. ' _Ohh, can I dance with you? Ooh, Draco, but that's such a novel idea! Ooh, you put so much thought into it!'_ Honestly! Could those two be any more disgusting? I think I threw up in my mouth. Ugh. Anyways, why did they mention Black? Are they in contact with him? And I'm still not sure what they were practicing. I'll have to – Oh, Merlin – hit the library." She rolled her eyes, irritated at the unwanted parallel. "We'll need to continue our surveillance, of course – and definitely check out their little date, because this has left more questions than anything. I think we should look into getting–"

Pansy chattered on relentlessly, relaying her plans and her ideas on how they should proceed. She talked and talked, remaining completely oblivious to Harry's narrowed eyes or the angry scowl on his mouth. He'd had quite enough. Pansy was a Slytherin and she might enjoy these little spying endeavours that would eventually lead to blackmail, but he wasn't made of the same clay. It was time to bust this thing wide open: confront Hermione, catch her dancing with Malfoy, and let the chips fall where they may.

He was done playing games.

* * *

 **All chapters have been looked over by my fantastic beta - Frogster, who has simply been a tremendous help.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: The Yule Ball**

 _Mind reading isn't like reading at all. It's neither a voice from the heavens, nor the writing on the wall. It's a herculean, unthinkable task, akin to deciphering a piece of abstract art from the inside. The realm is alien, dangerous in its vastness, and even an experienced legilimens can become dazzled by the fragmented dance of identity, emotion and thought, losing a portion of himself in the process._

 _And yet, despite the obvious perils, every single one of us will actively seek to practice the craft. We can't help it; the drive to feel and taste and see in a manner that transcends the regular senses is just too great. We happily succumb to it._

 _It becomes our drug, our helpless addiction, and thus sows the seeds of our downfall. For active legilimency requires a subject_ – _willing, or not. Fearing others of our kind, many begin with muggles as substitutes, but that never lasts, for those minds are simply too grey, too dim. Seeking out our own becomes inevitable, and it is a feeble, desperate hope...but what wouldn't you offer or trade away for a chance at benediction?_

 _Most times, that dream is just a mirage, as deceptive as it is deadly. Once a legilimens becomes exposed, their days are numbered. The community sees to that, usually._

 _However, in a few rare cases, the dream does come true. A partner is found, the secret is kept, and should the bond take hold without consequence, then it becomes stronger than any magic I have ever seen. It's a form of love, really...only more intimate, more close, more affectionate. How can it not be, between those who know_ everything _about each other? Who_ are _each other?_

 _I was one of those lucky ones. I found such a partner: a man who shared my talent, my dream, and my heart. At least, that's what I thought at the time._

 _His name was Albus..._

 **From the memoirs of Gellert Grindelwald, post-incarceration.**

 **. . . .**

Later, when the world had burned and been born anew, Hermione would recall these days as some of the happiest in her life.

The earth was pure and white, like a child's dream. Hermione would gaze at it during her classes, relishing in nature's splendor. And in these moments, she became completely oblivious to her surroundings, bothered neither by teachers nor the questions she knew all the answers to. Her arm didn't fly up in a bid to share her knowledge, and her mind was far away, leaving but a dreamy smile – just the tiniest tilt to her lips – to guide the wayward traveler into the direction of her departed thoughts.

But in some classes, like Potions, her behavior would change. Long sighs became replaced with heated looks, and cheeks tinged in rose. Sometimes, her heart would flutter and she'd bite her lip, glancing down and away, as a delicious warmth spread through her chest – a sinful warmth that could be indulged in later on, when the moon, sly and sinuous, slid through the starry skies, boldly peeking over the drawn curtains of her bed. The light of its tremulous touch would skim over her parted lips and the graceful curve of her neck, dip into the valley between two small yet supple breasts, and then coyly retreat, leaving her figure cloaked in a considerate shadow.

Hermione was lucky she had a reputation as a swot. The only thing preventing her less-than-subtle crush from being seen by her socially acute housemates was that they didn't think to look in the first place.

It was a growing crush, too. Ever since summer, it had been.

And a rational, very distant corner of Hermione's mind knew it was artificial, in part. Months of Legilimency had had an effect – and not one she could have foreseen, for there were no books dedicated to the art of mind reading, only glimpses from the other end of the spectrum. Hermione had to discover everything for herself, which meant that this particular bit of knowledge arrived as a surprise.

It started as something slight, inconsequential. Bits of emotions that didn't fit and insights that came out of nowhere. They were fleeting, and Hermione had enough on her mind to ignore the unexpected idiosyncrasies.

And then, in early November, feeling a sharp pang of annoyance from Draco's direction during breakfast, Hermione rose, and without a single thought, pause, or consideration, shot a discrete hex towards the Slytherin table.

Elis Fitzjames, the haughty sixth-year prefect that had been dressing down Draco for points he'd lost his house, ended up with a pitcher of pumpkin juice on her robes. She shrieked and spun around, eyes narrowed to slits, wand out in a fruitless search for the daring culprit. Hermione simply walked by, watching Elis' eyes skim past. No one suspected Hermione Granger. Only Draco knew. He'd felt what she'd done.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Hermione startlingly realized that their connection had grown into something stronger than…than something Hermione wasn't quite ready to put into words.

Maybe it should have bothered her. Maybe it would have been prudent to pause the Legilimency sessions, to investigate this unexpected bond, but Hermione didn't. It all felt too good: the boundaries mixing, blissful, like a drug-induced high.

Besides, Draco didn't question the feelings either. He enjoyed them, was drawn to them...to her.

Maybe that was his decision. Maybe it wasn't. In the end, Hermione did something entirely uncharacteristic and simply shoved the whole matter into the back of her mind. She was happy. So why question that?

Why question those moments in the corridors when Draco's eyes, in opposition to his lovestruck companions, refused to become glued to Beauxbatons' Queen Bee? When, instead of drooling over sleek Veela hair and skin, unblemished enough to to rival Aphrodite's, he watched her instead...even though her own hair, in its perpetual frizz, couldn't even come close to comparing? Hermione felt smug in these moments. Powerful. Content.

 _Mine._

It wasn't a conscious thought. It wasn't anything she put into words, but somewhere deep, on some level, she had laid her claim. Draco was hers, and when various shallow bints like Parkinson dared to fawn over him at the Slytherin table, Hermione would gnaw on the insides of her cheeks, staring aggressively anyplace else just to restrain some very murderous urges. Sometimes, she swore that Parkinson was acting this way on purpose, just to annoy her, but that would have been crazy.

 _Mine._

Hermione could barely contain the giddiness when Draco asked her to the ball. She knew he would, but hearing him say the words...it shot her over the moon. She skipped back to Gryffindor Tower. She stole Lavender's stash of magazines and read through every one, even though the more...mature articles made her blush furiously. Boys liked _that?!_ Hermione eyed a bowl of fruit the next morning, apprehensively. No. Just...no.

She owled Narcissa. Narcissa got her a dress, and shoes, and a small mountain of makeup that coquettes would kill for. Then, Narcissa actually managed to steal her out of the castle on the day of the ball. Hermione, subjected to several hours of extensive pampering and prodding at the Manor, for once didn't complain, although she could have sworn that waxing eyebrows...and not just eyebrows...using _magic_ should have turned out to be much less painful.

But beauty requires sacrifice.

When she descended to the common room with the other girls, Harry and Ron didn't even recognize her. Hermione didn't know whether to feel flattered or offended. She finally settled for smug and, smirking, sashayed across the room to her date: Cormac McLaggen.

McLaggen turned out to be a problem.

She'd only taken him as a cover – she planned on ditching the ball after a few dances – but Cormac just wouldn't let go. And his hands - his groping, disgusting, _straying_ hands - kept reaching down to cup her arse, and Hermione knew that if she didn't do anything about this quick, then Draco would cause a scene. Already, anger, dark as night, was seeping off him in waves, although Pansy, sitting by his side, didn't seem to be worried in the least. In fact, the skank had apparently noticed Hermione's predicament and was now smugly enjoying the show, rolling in schadenfreude. All she needed was a tub of popcorn.

It did _nothing_ for Hermione's mood.

But she didn't let it show. Silently, Hermione pondered how Narcissa would handle the problem: perpetually poised, perfect Narcissa. Would she explode, send hexes flying? No. Narcissa Malfoy would find a way to contain the situation, turn her opponents strengths against him.

"Cormy," Hermione giggled, leaning close to her date. Off to the side, Draco nearly exploded. "Cormy, do you wanna get outta here?"

Only a very self-absorbed person could have taken those words at face value, but Cormac didn't let her down. Throwing an arm around her shoulders in what he must have imagined to be a suave and sophisticated movement, the blond grinned lecherously. "Lead the way."

Hermione's vapid, simpering smile didn't slip. She kept it up until Cormac had pressed against her body in the shadow nook of an alcove and only then, with his mouth slobbering all over her ear, did she drop the pretense.

" _Petrificus Totalus."_

With his body frozen by magic, Hermione breathed easier. For a moment, she debated whether or not to add some some boils to his face (maybe rot his hair away, too), but then decided that wouldn't be fair. She _had_ led him on, just a bit. So she merely set Cormac down and then quickly but carefully started making her way to the real date of the night.

 **. . . .**

"Sorry, Pans, I'm really not feeling well."

"Oh, c'mon, Draco! Just one more dance!" Pansy batted her eyelashes, pretending not to notice the not-so-subtle scowl on her own date's face. Draco had been trying to escape her clutches to fifteen minutes already, and, being the bitch that she was, Pansy just couldn't let him go without having a little fun.

"No, no, I… I think I ate something. I'm gonna go see Pomfrey."

Curling her fingers 'round his arm (which Draco attempted to discreetly nudge off), Pansy tittered, "Aww, should I come too, Draky-poo?"

"No, Pans, I'm fine. I mean, I'm not fine, but I, ugh, don't want you to miss out. I know how much you've been looking forward to this ball."

"Oh, you are just so considerate!" Pansy simpered, keeping a vicious smirk off her face. Draco was right – she _had_ been eager for the Yule Ball – but just not for the reasons he thought. "Well you run along then, but come back soon!"

"Yeah, of course, Pans. But, you know, don't wait. My stomach…" Draco trailed off, backing away, and then hastily turned towards the exit. Pansy gave him a full ten seconds of head start and then, after shooting a quick look towards a group of Gryffindors nearby, followed in his footsteps.

 **. . . .**

"Err, bathroom." Harry's exit strategy wasn't anything special.

"Whatever." Parvati didn't even pretend to care. All evening her stupid date had been staring at Granger, leaving Parvati's patience to wear thin. She was actually jealous of her sister, Padma, who was dancing with Ron in the crowd. Ron, despite the ancient robes, seemed to have gained some confidence and was showing off some moves.

"Right." Harry didn't even glance back as he sprinted out the door. Parvati sighed in disgust and then made her way towards the dancefloor to join her twin. Soon, Ron was dancing with _both_ Patil sisters.

 **. . . .**

"Psst!"

Pansy jumped. "You're a walking heart attack, Potter."

"Yeah, yeah, I know you love me. Get under, let's go!"

Grumbling under her breath, Pansy jumped under the invisibility cloak and sniffed. "Is that...cologne?"

"Um, yeah. I bought some at–"

"Whatever. Hurry up!"

Three minutes later, as they were rounding a corner, Harry asked, "D'you...do you like it?"

Pansy sighed, heavily. "It's not bad."

 **. . . .**

"Hey."

Hermione looked up into Draco's eyes and smiled.

There was a time, she remembered, when all she saw there was hate. When Draco had sneered and bullied her. When he wished her dead. Now, all she saw in those eyes was warmth.

And Draco hadn't even changed all that much. He was still a spoiled prat, a peacock, and he liked to taunt other students in the corridors...not because he was innately cruel, but because he relished in the attention it gave him. He still hated muggles, considering them subhuman. And a year ago, even last summer, that had bothered Hermione. Now, not so much. So, Draco considered muggles dumb, so what? It wasn't like he was killing them. Or torturing them – like those Death Eaters at the World Cup. Hermione was still mad about that.

Mostly, muggles just weren't a part of this world – Hermione could see that now. They didn't matter. She still couldn't believe she had tried to change Draco's perception with something as silly as an arcade. Looking back, the idea itself seemed so childish.

Now muggleborns, Hermione thought, that was a different matter. That was a cause worth fighting for. During their Legilimency sessions, Hermione had been setting forth the idea in Draco's head that blood shouldn't matter. Draco knew what she doing. But he didn't mind.

The tactic was working, slowly. When Draco singled out muggleborn students it wasn't because of their heritage. He just made fun of their clothes, or hair, or lack of knowledge of the wizarding world. Well, progress comes in small parts.

"Here." The single word startled Hermione out of her thoughts. Draco had opened the door to a classroom and was patiently waiting for her with a smile.

"Sorry." Hermione glanced down and blushed.

"No problem." Draco held the door, gentleman he was. Before going through, Hermione turned around to cast a few sentry charms. Now, if anyone passed close to the entrance of this corridor, she'd know.

"I made a few alterations to the room," Draco told her when was was finished. Hermione shot him a curious look and then gasped.

These rooms near the library were mostly empty, filled with junk or suits of armor, webbed in layers of cobwebs. Long ago, the castle had been bustling full and these classrooms were used for teaching and practicing. Now, they were just storerooms, ignored, forgotten. Draco had changed all this.

"Linny helped me," he admitted, following her into the room.

"I can see that," Hermione replied, awed, glancing around the lush carpets and the wingback chairs and the paintings on the walls. A musical box in the shape of a barrel organ had been placed on a Neoclassical Parisian commode, with cabriole legs and soft planes, depicting a scene from antiquity. It all looked elegant and poised and perfect.

Draco let her take it all in, a silly and proud smile spreading over his features. He'd been working all week on this, and Hermione's reaction was everything he hoped for. Gently, so as not to disturb her moment of wonder, he shut the door behind them, which didn't close for some reason on the first try. Frowning, Draco tried again, and thought he felt a breath of air pass him by, but then dismissed the notion.

"I'm glad you like it," he said.

" _Like it?!"_ Hermione exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. "Draco, I love it! Did you...did you do all this for me?"

"Well, I just planned, mostly," he answered, feeling his cheeks grow pink. "Linny had the Hogwarts elves assist her. They actually set the room."

"Still." Hermione turned around and walked towards him with a smile. "It's the most anyone's ever done for me. Thank you."

A coughing sound echoed from a corner of the room, but neither Draco nor Hermione noticed. They were standing close; Draco looking down, lost in eyes the color of creamy caramel. Many times over the past several months he'd stared into them, letting Hermione practice on the defences of his mind, but now...it seemed different. His heart was thumping in his chest, and his gaze roved down, over the tip of Hermione's nose and the rosy coral of her parted lips.

"Draco," he heard her whisper, as she leaned into his chest, tilting her head back. His arms circled around her waist, settling on the low of her back. "Hermione," Draco echoed, the warmth of her breath on his cheeks. She was close, so close, and he closed his eyes, dipping his head lower, until...

Until, like a vicious tornado, Harry Potter's voice tore through the room, upheaving everything that mattered.

" _Expelliarmus!"_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Before The Storm**

For Hermione, time stood still. Petrified, she watched her wand sail across the room and land into Harry's hand, who had appeared out of nowhere, like a nightmare at noon. What was he doing here? How had he known? A thousand questions flashed through her mind – and the paucity of answers that rose to meet them rolled over her with nausea.

Her confusion only grew when Pansy Parkinson's very displeased features appeared next to Harry.

 _The cloak,_ Hermione thought distantly. _They were hiding under the cloak._

Draco had taken a few steps forward, shielding her from the intruders. "Working with Potter," he spat in his housemate's direction. "Fallen so low, huh, Pans?"

"Well that's rich, coming from you. Look who's standing by _your_ side, _Drakey."_

"You have _no idea_ who's standing by my side," he growled.

"Actually," Pansy shot back, "I do. I've been spending some time in the library recently, and I think I know who your dear friend is. Or, should I rather say: _what_ she is."

Hermione's gaze snapped up. Parkinson smiled triumphantly – and it wasn't a nice smile, but vicious and hungry, like a viper's."Oh, yes," she drawled, enjoying the moment. "Imagine my surprise. Turns out, there's not a lot of magic involving two people just sitting and staring at one another."

"What do you mean, 'what' she is?" For the first time during their engagement, Harry spoke up. Parkinson's smile faltered slightly, and Draco, sensing a weakness in his opponents, pounced. "Oh, didn't she tell you, Potter? That's just Pansy for you. Only cares about herself, you see. Working with you, spying on us...it's all probably just on her daddy's orders."

"Shut. Up." Parkinson went white as a sheet.

"Is that true?" Harry asked.

Draco laughed. "Didn't you wonder why she's been going out on dates with Gryffindors? What her whole goal here is?"

"If you say one more word, Draco..." Parkinson snarled, raising her wand.

"Or what? Gonna curse me? Go on, I dare you. See what happens. Those loans won't disappear, that's for sure."

Harry carefully glanced towards his partner. "What's he talking about?"

"Money!" Draco laughed again. "The Parkinsons, you see, are broke! They're keeping up appearances – for the moment – but it's all Malfoy gold. Generous loans by my father, which come due by summer! So dear old Parkinson senior has been trying to tout his precious little flower, see what kind of suitor is drawn to the smell. Now, I don't imagine Pansy is too thrilled with that, so she's here, Potter, not to help you – or whatever it is you imagined – but to get blackmail material on _me._ Except it didn't work and now she's screwed."

" _Except, it has worked."_ Pansy hissed furiously. She looked livid, spots of red blossoming on her cheeks. "I haven't miscalculated nor have I screwed up! Because _she_ –" Pansy gestured towards Hermione "–is a secret you'll pay dearly for! Do you know what happens when I tell anyone – _anyone!_ – what she is?! What she can do? She'll be dead within a week!"

"Don't you even dare threaten us!" Draco roared. Hermione, blood pounding in her ears like a drum, quickly took several steps forward. This was getting out of control. If she could just get her wand from Harry…

But Harry had plans of his own. With two sharp wand movements, he froze Draco and Hermione in place and then turned towards Pansy.

"I don't know anything about your family," he told her, in a tight, clipped tone. "But you have a choice to make, right now. Either you try and go make a play on your own, and then we're done. Or you tell me what you know, and we can work with this together... _without_ making threats about my friends dying anytime soon."

Hermione struggled against the magic, cursing Harry for actually being competent in petrifying charms, but a small part of her soared when he said 'friend'. Maybe this wasn't all as bad as it looked.

Pansy, meanwhile, looked torn. Anger and despair and a kind of grim determination warred on the sharp features of her countenance, until one side finally won, and she lowered her wand with a sigh. "Fine. You want to know what your dear friend Granger is? If that even _is_ her name. She's a legilimens!"

"A legi-what?" Harry repeated.

"Ligilemens! She can read minds! Just like the Da...like You-Know-Who!"

"Is this true?" Ignoring Parkinson's tongue-slip, Harry released the magic holding Hermione. With no other option available, she did the only thing she could: nod dully. "It is."

Harry was silent for a moment, taking it all in. Then, much to Parkinson's outrage, he tossed Hermione her wand back and quipped, "Must not be a pretty good mind-reader then, to miss this coming."

Hermione huffed crossly. All the work she'd put into _not_ abusing her powers (not that she felt remotely ready to, but that was beside the point), only to have her abilities questioned? And from a person that she'd been helping with academics since year one?! Outrageous. Judging from Harry's grin, he knew perfectly well the reaction his words had caused, and she shot him a withering glare. Next time he needed help on a potions assignment, she'd just write him not five extra inches, but three! And she wouldn't color-code the study guides she made him. See how he survived then!

Muttering under her breath, Hermione freed Draco from the petrifying charm and turned to face Harry. He may have returned her wand, but she felt it was going to be a long night.

The prediction held true, of course. Maybe she could take Trelawney's post? From what she'd heard, there was no possible way she could do any worse of a job.

Several hours later, secreted away in a room none of the staff would ever look into, Hermione began her story. "My name is Selena," she started. "Selena Selwyn..."

 **. . . .**

Harry hounded her throughout the whole week. He had more questions – thousands of them, spanning everything from her still yet undiscovered past to the convoluted present. He'd been gobsmacked to realize she'd been living at the Malfoys since the end of second year and that his father had killed her mum – something which they almost came to blows over until mutually deciding to drop the matter, because the sins of the parents shouldn't reflect on their children.

But the most earth-shattering revelation was related to Sirius.

Hermione knew Harry had it tough on the home front. He never really talked about it, but both she and Ron had picked up hints over the years. It wasn't hard to notice how unhappy he was at the Dursleys, that the family had substituted love for abuse and neglect.

So the information that he had family – not some crazy, murderous relative, sentenced to Azkaban for multiple homicide – but a real link to his parents – well, Hermione couldn't exactly say what Harry was going through, but every time he asked about Sirius, his eyes lit up with a desperate yearning that made her heart wrench.

She'd been planning on introducing them anyway, but recent developments made her hasten her plans.

Which led them here: to the slightly canted and worn out steps of Grimmauld Place on New Year's Eve.

They'd snuck out of the castle an hour before dawn. Both being well acquainted with the secret passageways leading to Hogsmeade – Hermione's permission slip to the village had never been signed – their journey passed swiftly. The cellar of Honeydukes was warm (albeit cramped), and they creeped past the barrels of merchandise, quieter than mice. On the main floor, hidden behind a jar of Bertie Botts' Every Flavor Beans, Narcissa had left an inconspicuous wooden chip – a portkey – that was primed for departure at exactly 7:00 AM.

On the seventh chime, the world swirled around them, depositing the pair on the frigid London streets, where a few lonely muggle passersby – those unlucky sods forced to make their living on New Year's – only noticed a strange gust of wind that seemed to originate from nowhere in particular.

"Hermione." She paused at the arched doorway, glancing back. Harry stood still, his features framed in gold as the sun's first early rays breached the horizon. She smiled.

"It'll be alright, Harry. He's eager to see you too."

Harry nodded choppily and took her hand. Together, they entered the ancient home.

Grimmauld Place had changed. Gone were the cobwebed corners and the piles of doxie droppings. The walls – once peeling and cracked – sung a mournful melody no longer. Instead, fresh coats of paint and cheerful art greeted the visitors. The foyer was light, lit by the magical radinance of an elaborate chandelier, one which would do justice to any muggle palace, museum, or opera house.

Standing in the middle of the room was Sirius Black.

The man had undergone a similar transformation. His hair, once tangled, greasy and full of dirt, gleamed richly as it fell in a luxurious cascade down his shoulders. He was cleanly shaved and the eyes that peered out of his handsome face – one tinged by old lines of worry and regret – shone with happiness.

Such was the effect of half-a-year's worth of effort.

Upon her earlier escape from Grimmauld Place – whereupon she'd almost killed Harry's godfather – Hermione had broken off all contact with him for a period of several months. The reason was simple – and it was the same one which had caused her to abandon Harry in his time of need. She wasn't proud of her choice, but at the time she hadn't had the heart nor the will to correspond with her mother's killer, even if he had turned into her own savior.

As the weeks passed, however, and autumn dressed the forests and fields in cloaks full of vibrant flair, she realized that something had to be done. She wasn't ready to introduce Harry to to Sirius, but it would have to be done, eventually, and so, tentatively, she wrote a letter to him, asking to meet.

Sirius was furious with her actions. Rightly so, probably. But Hermione declared that if he ever wanted a chance to meet Harry – and maybe even walk free among the other wizarding denizens – then he had to turn his life around. The drinking would have to stop. The obsessive search for Pettegrew needed to end. Sirius was living for one reason only – vengeance – and it wasn't conductive to good health or company. In fact, Hermione declared, lying only in part, he had frightened her dearly on the previous occasion of their meeting. Terrified, even. It had taken her weeks to come to terms with what had happened, and she would not have Harry see his godfather as some broken being, barely surviving and perpetually on the verge of madness.

Sirius raged, but in the end, having no other choice, he acquiesced to her order, on the condition that she assist him with Pettegrew. Hermione considered it for a time and then they shook on it. Thus, the agreement was born.

Kreacher and Sirius transformed the place. They still didn't like each other – they barely managed civility – but Kreacher had been reminded of an elf's place in the world and Sirius managed to tolerate his servant. Hermione loaned them money, and with proper food and care, Sirius lost his gaunt and frenzied look, becoming cleaner, younger and even, as Hermione had been forced to admit, almost dashing. He must have been a real looker in his youth, and the years in Azkaban had only given his features a dark and mysterious vibe.

But she'd never seen him truly happy. Until now, that is.

"Hello, Harry."

"Err, Hi."

The two men stood still for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. Hermione watched them carefully from the door. Sirius glanced briefly in her direction, floundered, and then, eyes snapping back to Harry, ventured, "I hear you like Quidditch?"

"Yeah, I guess. I'm a seeker."

"Just like James." Sirius smiled fleetingly. "You like your broom?"

"It's a Nimbus 2010. Couple of years old, but she flies well."

"And what do–"

Hermione took several steps back, leaving the two men alone to their conversation. They didn't need her right now.

She sat on the porch, watching the sun rise above the world. Her mind was scattered, preoccupied with the recent changes in her life. Harry knew. Parkinson knew. She still couldn't believe she'd been so careless. Thankfully, this particular crisis had been averted, as both Harry and Parkinson had agreed to be bound in an oath of secrecy: Harry in exchange for her story, and Parkinson for a financial easing of her family's burdens. Draco had done the negotiating here. Whatever he had offered Parkinson had appeased her enough, however, so that it was in her own best interest to keep Hermione's secret safe.

The sun ascended to its lofty perch, glinting on the mansard roofs covered in a brilliant white, and Hermione shivered. She couldn't afford another mistake. Despite the cheerful brilliance of the day, there was an odd sense of foreboding in her soul, gloom hanging over her head. Something was coming. Something that would change this world, tearing it asunder, and she was, for some reason…

Thrilled.

 **. . . .**

The New Year came festive and bright. Hermione didn't share the sentiments. She buried herself in spells and magic and learning, practicing dark hexes from books that Lucius had smuggled in for her. The magic came easy to her, _called_ to her, and she couldn't ignore its cry.

She tried her first _Imperio_ on Draco in February. He'd agreed to be a test subject, only to laugh himself silly when her first attempt failed miserably. As did her second. And third. Even with her natural inclinations, some magic was too difficult for a fifteen-year-old. It took her a whole month before Draco actually felt something, and then another for him to start shrugging off her commands.

Still, the progression left her satisfied. Along with her regular classes, the Legilimency sessions, the secret dark arts, and just hanging out with Draco, Hermione's schedule was full. Sometimes, she could spend a whole day with the blond on the weekend, talking about everything and nothing, holding hands, kissing. It irked her that they had to keep their friendship a secret – that their weekly sojourns had to be held in the privacy of old, abandoned classrooms, and not out in the open, for everyone to see.

Harry didn't have that problem. Oh, no. His mission with Parkinson had come to end, but their friendship – or whatever it was between them – had, apparently, not. And Parkinson had taken matters into her own hands one day, simply plopping down beside Harry at the Gryffindor table at breakfast, like it was the most regular thing in the world.

Half the Great Hall went silent with shock. Ron choked on his potatoes, and even Dumbledore had paused, glancing down from the teacher's table with surprise. Parkinson ignored the outrage, and, haughtily raising her nose in the air, snootily informed the people surrounding her that, as a pureblood heiress of the highest station – one could say _princess_ , even – she could sit anywhere she damn well pleased, even if it was at a table that held such an unfortunate captivation with the color maroon.

Harry, looking amused by the whole affair, merely passed her the salt.

At times, Hermione grew jealous with the two those could openly spend their time with each other. But she was also happy for Harry. If socializing with that bloody Slytherin cow made him smile...well, who was she to argue? Besides, she had more important things to worry about. Like her studies. And OWLS – which would be at the end of next year, so that meant she had to start studying now.

And the dreams.

They had returned with a vengeance – troubled dreams, about blood and fire and bones, bleached in the wind. Occlumency kept most of these nightmares at bay, but on some nights, she would wake up, covered in sweat and breathing shakily. She could recall remnants of haunted temptations and a will to control, to conquer. She could not fathom the source of such dark desires.

Only Draco was privy to her troubles, but she forbade him to tell anyone. So he just tried to comfort her as best he could, holding her in the few moments when they were alone together.

As the months went by, and the school year drew to a close, Hermione's dreams and the feeling of impending doom only grew. Sometimes, she grew terrified. And sometimes, all she wanted was to give in, lash out, and let the darkness take hold.

She didn't know what scared her more.

And, in addition to everything, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her. Paranoia, mused Hermione, as she double-checked her every move. After Harry, she saw danger in the shadows. It was irrational, ridiculous, even...but the feeling wouldn't leave, although with the school year drawing to a close, Hermione had begun to hope that the despair and yearning rooted in her soul was simply the result of an overactive imagination.

With only the third task left, she'd be able to find peace over summer.

Everything would be well, she told herself. Everything.

 **. . . .**

The nook behind the statue of Brog the Borgsome was cozy, intimate, and had a small window that gave a view of the Black Lake. It was also very private – few students were aware that scratching Brog between the legs would cause the statue to giggle and jump aside for a few moments, granting passage. It wasn't something tried out in jest, as most of Hogwarts' denizens were very protective of their privates. Getting bashed over the head by a statue wasn't anyone's idea of entertainment.

The nook was currently occupied. Draco was perched on the windowsill, Hermione slumped in his arms. Idly, he ran his fingers through her hair, relishing in the rich frizz as he listened to the rumbling thunder outside.

A storm was coming.

"The nightmares still bothering you?" he broke the silence.

Hermione nodded.

"Don't want to talk about it?"

She shook her head.

"Alright."

Fifteen quiet minutes passed by. Students had begun gather on the lawn below, teachers set up storm wards. The third task was about to start.

"We should go," Draco finally said. "You wouldn't want to miss Potter winning that stupid cup, would you?"

The wind began to howl, scraping its claws against the glass. The Whomping Willow creaked ominously.

"Do you feel it?" Hermione asked, in a low voice that sent shivers down his spine.

"Feel what?"

She was silent for a time, so long that he thought she'd forgotten the question. But then, slowly, with a creeping menace, Hermione began to speak. "The tempest. The breath of change. The fire that will clear this world so that we can rebuild it in our image." There was a rhythmic cadence to her words, almost hypnotic. "But to build anew, the old must go."

"What are you, practicing for Trelawney?" Draco tried to joke, but Hermione ignored him.

"It's almost here," she said, in rapture. "And it will be beautiful, Draco. It will be bold, and it will be brave. And…" Hermione paused, breathing shakily.

"And?" Draco prompted, feeling very uneasy for some reason.

"And it will be ours."

Unsettled by the declaration, he tugged a few curls of her hair behind her ear so that he could catch a glimpse of her face. In doing so, he turned her head and Hermione nearly jumped in his arms, blinking owlishly up at him as if she had just come out of stupor.

"Draco?" she said, confused.

He asked, "Are you feeling well? What's this nonsense about fire and tempests?"

"I'm...I'm sorry." She sounded chastened, uncertain of her own words. "It's the dreams again. And the studying. I'm not getting enough sleep."

"Well, you bloody well should! Of all people, you should know–"

"Oh, look!" Hermione interrupted him, pointing out the window as if she just noticed the crowds gathering below. "The third task! It's about to start! Quick or we'll be late!"

"Well, that's what I was telling you about…"

"Yes. Yes. Now go! We can't be seen together! Go, Draco! I'll follow right behind you!"

"Alright...but are you sure–"

"Yes! Yes. Hurry!"

Hermione jumped up, tugging Draco along with her. She scratched the statue and practically pushed Draco into the resulting opening. "Right behind you!" she whispered, and then her shadowed features disappeared behind stone.

Draco descended down the stairs, heart beating heavy. The situation with Hermione was growing to worry him, and he resolved to keep an eye on her in the stands.

But when he got the spectacor area that had been set up around the large maze, he couldn't find her in Gryffindor section. In fact, he couldn't find her anywhere at all.

Hermione was gone.

* * *

 **Hey, guys! Hope you're enjoying the story! In-between these chapters, I wrote several other short stories, so here's a small promo: one is a short tale about Draco and Hermione, bonded by the marriage law and trying to kill one another. The other is a slightly longer story about Harry playing matchmaker after the war...with some unexpected results. They're called 'The Intricacies of Marriage' and 'Just Take the Long Way', so check 'em out on my profile!**

 **As always, a huge thanks to Frogster.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: The Graveyard**

"Harry Potter." Voldemort spoke slowly, savoring the words as if they were a delicacy on the tongue, a gift for the palate.

"You will not die tonight."

Harry didn't say anything, causing Voldemort's bloodless lips to quirk into a smile. The stubborn silence only seemed to amuse him. "Who is the other boy?" he asked after a moment, wrenching his gaze away. "Another champion?"

"Y–yes, my lord," Wormtail stammered from the side. "Cedric Diggory is his name."

"He will not die either." The proclamation echoed in the night as the heavy storm clouds parted overheard, revealing a bitter moon that cackled soundlessly. "Surprised, Harry? I owe you a debt a gratitude, after all. Both to you _and_ your mother."

"Don't you dare talk about my mother!" Harry snarled, speaking up for the first time since his capture.

"Alright," Voldemort agreed surprisingly easy. "Down to business it is. First…" He trailed off, using one of his hands to levitate Diggory's petrified body away. He wasn't using his wand, Harry noted

Satisfied with Cedric's new location, Voldemort cocked his head and suddenly said, without even a hint of sympathy, "This will hurt, Harry."

The warning came much too late. By the time Voldermort ended his phrase, his eyes had widened and burned a furious red, drilling into Harry's mind with a raw, merciless power. The pain from the unwanted intrusion was unfathomable, wrenching agonized screams from Harry's lips. Blood pounded in his ears. Tasting copper on his tongue, Harry tried to resist and cast Voldemort out of his mind, but the older wizard swatted away his attempts like flies. The pain grew and thundered. Harry's head felt like it was about to explode. He screamed again, thrashing against the magical bounds of his prison, until the pressure suddenly lessened, and Voldemort withdrew.

"I see now," the dark wizard panted, as if the connection had caused him an immeasurable amount of pain too. Still, despite the rasp in his voice, he sounded pleased. "The last piece of the puzzle. Finally."

The wind picked up into a lonely howl, and Voldemort closed his eyes, resting his hands on the gravestone Harry had been bound to. "There were years," he said, so softly that his lips barely moved at all, "when I imagined this moment. It was so vivid, Harry, so bright in my mind. The curses I would subject you to, the pitch of your wails, the blood splattered around – I pictured it all. I had little to do then, you see, except dream of vengeance. I was nothing, a specter, slipping by, as I planned the atrocities I would commit on your body. And then Quirrell came. He was a lucky accident, of course, and do you know how much that vexed me, Harry? That I, Lord Voldemort, had lost the thread of my own destiny? That like some pauper on the crossroads of fate, I was reduced to begging for charity?"

Voldemort exhaled heavily, as if the memories were some great burden, levied on his shoulders. "The man I was then would have murdered you without hesitation, Harry. But then, as we fought for the Sorcerer's Stone, something changed. Do you know what that was, Harry? Can you take a guess?"

Still reeling from the recent onslaught of pain, Harry spit out a wad of blood and panted, "Yeah: I kicked your ugly ass out of Quirrell."

Voldemort laughed, a barking, hyennish sound that echoed through the air. "You did, Harry! You did, indeed. Quirrell failed me, and you took advantage – I cannot fault you for that. But that is not the incident to which I refer. You see, down in that dungeon, when Quirrell turned his head, letting me gaze upon you, I caught a brief glimpse of the mirror. You remember it, Harry, don't you? The Mirror of Erised?" Voldemort's voice had grown in fervor; echoing among the gravestones and the rising fog, it sounded mystical, hypnotic. "The mirror that shows the deepest desires; what the heart _truly_ wants. Do you know what I saw in those depths? What vision led me here tonight, unwilling to shed even a drop of your precious blood?"

Voldemort paused, looking at Harry's with a trace of madness swirling in his glowing eyes. "It was the future, Harry. The one I had forgotten, that my lust for vengeance and power had blinded me to! Power is myopic, remember that, boy. It is the most dangerous of pursuits, and it led me down into a chasm, but the mirror broke that spell! It showed me the way out! It gave me a path towards a future where wizards will reign supreme, and a new world will grow, a world which will foster neither malady nor hardship, where even...death will have retreated from the lands. Yes, Harry. Look at me, risen from the dead! Would you like to know that secret? I could share it with you. All you need to do is stand by my side. Don't shake your head, think about it. You could be great, you know."

 _You could be great…_ The Sorting Hat's words twisted under the stars, mocking him, and Harry suddenly realized that Voldemort knew... _everything._ Somehow, during the mere seconds he'd spent in his head (or was it hours?), he'd sifted through his memories, learning all there was to know. Which was why this proposition could be nothing more than cruel mockery.

"I would rather die than join you!" Harry spat furiously, but his furious declaration had no effect on his captor. Voldemort merely nodded, as if he expected such a reaction, and then slowly began to retreat. "I will repeat my offer once again tonight, Harry," he said, turning away. "I do hope you'll change your mind. Now, Wormtail, come here. It's time to see how many remember. How many will have the courage to come. Your arm!"

The storm had passed now, heading away, towards Hogwarts, and in the light of the waxing moon Harry watched as Voldemort summoned his followers. One by one they appeared, cloaked in darkness with faces of bone. Within minutes, over two dozen shadows stood in the moonlight, whispering and awed.

"My Lord!" One of them cried out as they all fell to their knees, murmuring those words, either out of respect or fear. Voldemort accepted their submission silently, sweeping up his hands from the depths of the black robes Wormtail had dressed him in. He made a slight gesture with his hand, and all the Death Eaters fell silent at once.

"My loyal...friends," said Voldemort, stepping forward. "How many have come." He stepped through the kneeling forms, whispering the names of the men and women he passed. Other than those sounds, a deadly silence hung over the gravestones.

"Welcome," Voldemort finally said. "To those of you who have not spurned the mark and remembered the oaths you took. I am pleased to see you. But!" Voldemort raised a finger, "I am also disheartened. For among all of you, only two rose to aid me in my struggle. The rest… You disappoint me…Lucius…you were so eager to help me when it was in your favor, but after I was gone, it became _Imperious_ this, _Imperious_ that. Tell me, have I ever _Imperious'ed_ you?"

"No, my lord."

"So then why would you lie?"

"It–it was to better serve you, my lord. From the outside, I could–"

"Lies. All lies. Nott! Did you reach out to assist me in any manner or form?"

"I...I tried. I swear! If I only knew–"

"More falsehoods. And you, Mercurio. With you, I am displeased most of all. You have been the head editor of _The Prophet_ for what, twenty years now?"

"Y–yes, my lord."

"And when I fell, what did you print?"

"I… The conservatives, my lord, I had no choice–"

"Don't bother," Voldemort snapped, silencing the stuttering man wave with a dismissive wave of his hand. "In your articles you called Harry Potter my _equal._ My _rival,_ even _. The-Boy-Who-Lived._ Turn your head, Mercurio, look at that gravestone! Tell me, does that _boy_ look like my rival to you?"

There was a chorus of gasps as all the Death Eaters became aware of Harry's presence. Harry was stunned too, albeit for a different reason: he hadn't even noticed when Voldemort had covered him with a concealing charm.

"Yes, my friends," Voldemort declared, his tone oozing with glee, "Harry Potter has been kind enough to indulge us tonight with his presence. Witness him: the victor! The infant that vanquished Lord Voldemort! Our world has praised him, toasted him, elevated this hero onto a pedestal of glory! But do you – do any of you – know what Harry Potter's _real_ reward was? What he received in exchange for his... _noble..._ act?"

Harry felt a wave of bile rise in his throat. What did Voldemort mean? Surely, not–

Voldemort's chuckle reached his ears with a dark and ominous foreboding. "Wormtail has learned this secret. So, dear Peter, why don't share what you know and tell everyone how _exactly_ the great Harry Potter was honored for bringing...me...down."

Pettigrew, terrified of the sudden attention, shuddered as he took several steps forwards. Gulping anxiously, he squeaked out in a thin and quivering voice: "For the majority of his youth, Harry Potter resided in a cupboard under the stairs."

There was a deadly silence. And then Death Eater laughter exploded into the night. And it wasn't just laughter. The whole group hooted, hollered, and wheezed. They clutched their sides, wiping away tears streaming behind their masks, and one individual even collapsed to the ground, banging the earth with his fists. Throughout it all, Harry remained silent, biting his lips so hard that he tasted blood again.

"Rise, my friends," said Voldemort, when the laughter had died down. "Rise and listen to the tale of _The-Boy-Who-Triumphed!_ Wormtail, continue."

What followed were the most utterly humiliating moments of Harry's life. Hermione had been right when she theorized that it had been Scabbers on the neighbor's hedge over the summer, spying on him. And Pettegrew had apparently learned _everything._ In vivid detail, he recounted every punishment the Dursleys had doled out: the mismatched, washed-out clothes they'd forced him to wear, the food they'd denied, the stories Petunia and Vernon had spun to their neighbors, about the ungrateful, violent spawn of two alcoholics, who'd both died in a drunk-driving incident. Wormtail told it all, making a point to go into explicit detail about the times Dudley had beat him with Piers and the gang.

Biting back bitter tears, Harry hung his head. He would not let these people see him cry. _He would not._

But, as Pettigrew's story went on, something inexplicable happened. Something Harry could not have predicted nor explained. The laughter that dominated the beginning of the story slowly began to die out, and by end, there was only complete and utter silence.

"Why so quiet?" Voldemort queried, after Wormtail had finished speaking. He walked among his followers, a pale ghost in a sea of black. "Does it bother you? Hmm? Crabbe?"

The singled-out Death Eater shifted awkwardly. "It's not right, my lord," Harry heard a low voice. "He's a half-blood, but still our kind. And no _muggle_ should have the right to cause us harm."

"I see," Voldemort softly said. "And you, Alikson? Do you agree with Crabbe's words?"

"Yes, my lord." The woman's tone was crisp and poised. "Had the boy been given to me, I might have killed him…" She paused, waiting for a chuckle to pass through the crowd, "but had I not, then he would have been raised as my own. He would have known privilege _._ "

"All of you would echo such sentiments?" A general murmur of assent followed his question, and Voldemort smiled. "So you see, Harry," he concluded, turning with a flourish towards his captive, "even my Death Eaters would not have treated you with such dishonor as those muggles you call family."

"And who put me there, with them?" Harry croaked back at the triumphant wizard. The story had left him biting back sobs. "Who killed my parents? You stand there, laughing, but it's your fault! All of it! Give me a wand!" Harry started to yell. "Give me a wand, and I'll show you! I'll blast you back to a specter just like I did before!"

"You are right, Harry." Voldemort agreed unexpectedly. Barely moving his lips, the words were nevertheless heard by all and stopped Harry mid-sentence. "But my transgression goes beyond your misery! For in my previous actions, I did not only fail you, but–" He turned to survey his troops, and continued with fervor "–all of you! When you joined me, I gave you my word that we would build a brave new world together! That we would stop hiding like crooks in the shadows! I told you we would reign supreme! But then I led you astray…"

Harry could feel his spine tingling; Voldemort was infusing his words with some sort of magic, and it was taking everything he had not to get carried away by the speech. The Death Eaters were expressing no such hesitations, however; nodding vigorously, they were obviously moved by the words.

"Instead of focusing on the real enemy – _our_ enemy – I placed you into battle against kin! Brother fought brother, father faced son. We slayed each other on the battlefield, and my heart weeps for every drop of spilled blood!" Voldemort cried out, raising his hands once more. "No more! No more, I say! Magic is precious! Magic is might!"

"Magic is might!" The Death Eaters echoed.

"But if those words are true," Voldemort continued passionately, "then why do we skulk in the shadows?! Why do we hide, letting muggle filth consume more and more of this world?! The muggle hordes expand endlessly – they do not stop! They build new cities and roads, destroying what little land we have left! But do we fight them? Do we stop their development, or do we always move away, allowing them to edge us out?!"

"But, the Ministry…" one of the Death Eater protested weakly, and Voldemort pounced on the words quicker a hyena on a kill.

"The Ministry and its conservative bureaucracy," he spat, "do only one thing: uphold the Statute of Secrecy. But they do not realize that it no longers holds relevance! 400 years have passed since its signage, and Muggles have evolved and changed! Just this year, they came within millimeters of discovering our world! Four governments barely stopped them, and what has anyone done?! What have any of you done, except sit in your manors, content to wait out the danger should it come knocking at your door?! Where is your pride, I ask?! Your indignance?! Your fury at being replaced?! Fourteen years I have been gone, and what have any of you accomplished to deter this threat?!"

"I have!" A man's voice cried out as he fell forward to his knees, raising his hands up into the air. "The others slumbered, but I have fought! I have killed seven muggles!"

A profound silence greeted his sudden declaration.

"...And?" Voldemort finally asked, when the man had started to fidget.

"M–my lord?"

"You killed seven muggles, _and…?_ Or is that it, Avery? Fourteen years, and every two, you would raise your fat arse and find a break in your schedule convenient enough to murder a muggle? And you think that's enough?"

"Is...is it not?"

"Get up," Voldemort spat with disgust. "There are over seven _billion_ muggles in this world now. You lot could start killing them right now, do it for a hundred years, and never even make a dent. You, too, have fallen behind the times. Muggles don't live in hovels anymore. They do not scour the forest floor like pigs, looking for acorns to ground into flour. They have made machines and weapons – powerful weapons."

Voldemort paused as a nervous chuckle rose from the crowd. "You do not believe me?" he asked lightly. The laughter instantly stopped. "There is no shame in admitting your reluctance to believe in the muggle threat. I will not punish you for it. Who here doubts a muggle could pose them danger, step forward!"

There was only silence and Voldemort scowled. "Do not make me tear it from your minds! Step. Forward."

After a tense ten seconds, a lone Death Eater made his way from the throng.

"Atwood. Perhaps Dumbledore is right, and Hogwarts does sort too soon? Find some Gryffindor courage in that snakish heart of yours?"

The man, visibly frightened, shrugged meekly. Voldemort smiled. "Like I said, I will not punish you. You will serve as a demonstration instead. Now, look here." With an eloquent gesture, Voldemort summoned what Harry realized was a gun. "This is a standard muggle weapon," Voldemort explained to his Death Eaters. "A pistol, mass produced for millions. It has no magical modifications. Naturally, you will be free to examine it after I am done. Now, Atwood, raise your wand and cast the strongest protective magic you know. Now, Atwood, now! Do it!

Voldemort waited patiently until the man was covered by a translucent shield – a fairly standard _protego_ charm, as far as Harry could tell – and only then raised his hand. "Watch," he said, and then pulled the trigger.

The gun went off, and Atwood fell to the ground, screaming. His shield shimmered in front of him for a few moments, seemingly untouched, before slowly fading away into nothing. The Death Eaters met the spectacle with gasps of disbelief and rushed forward, checking up on Atwood's wound. Someone began to chant over his fallen body, healing the damage. Very soon, a tiny bit of metal forced its way out from the under the broken tissue.

"This?" Harry heard one of Voldemort's followers exclaim. "This broke through the shield? Impossible!"

"The _protego_ charm was developed to counter magic, first and foremost," Voldemort droned, with just a touch of condescension and disgust. "That was Atwood's first mistake. Muggles will not attack you with magic. They will do so with guns, and an unmodified _protego,_ while it may be sufficient to stop an arrow, will do absolutely nothing to an ounce of steel, propelled to over the speed of sound. Ironically, this was known to us eighty years ago, when the muggles fought their last major war, but now it is not common knowledge. Over these last decades, we have regressed into such total isolation and prejudice, that even those of you who have contacts in the muggle world–" For some reason Voldemort peered into Malfoy's direction "–don't believe they pose a threat. But they do. As the French fiasco showed, obliviators from four governments were barely able to prevent the disclosure of our world to muggle masses. But what if it happens again – or rather, _when_ will it happen again?"

Voldemort paused, surveying his followers with a grave look. "The simple fact is," he declared into the night, "muggles _will_ discover us. It might occur ten years from now; it may happen tomorrow. But when they do, we will be woefully unprepared. Our world will be destroyed, and we will pass into the annals of history as neanderthalic fools, incapable of even a scintilla of foresight."

"But I have a plan."

"Each and every one of you," Voldemort declared, pacing through his followers, "will be given specific assignments. You _will not_ share the details of your tasks with anyone. You _will_ complete them without delay. You will also do so without hurting a single being of magical blood. In fact, I _expressly forbid_ the murder of any member of our society, for we must have every body to muster through the dark times ahead. Even mudbloods will remain untouchable, that is my command."

Harry would have expected arguments, but for some reason not a single one of the Death Eaters rose in protest. "These assignments will be trying!" Voldemort's voice, reverberating over the field of dead like thunder, rose to a booming crescendo. "Some will take months or even years! But in the end, you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams! You will see a brave new world! A world free of muggle filth! And this world will be beautiful! It will be vast! And it _will be yours!"_

Lighting flashed overhead. The Death Eaters, completely enthralled by the speech, met those last words with a chorus of exuberant cheers. From his position in the middle of the graveyard, Voldemort seemed to shine with a heavenly light, drawing looks filled with reverie and amazement. Even Harry couldn't avoid a glazed expression, as the words wove a wondrous sight in his mind: a true garden of Eden, where magical folk lived in peace and harmony. Where, free from the clout of muggle interference, amazing creations were erected and astounding feats of magic cherished the lands. It was a radiant image, and just so, so...perfect.

The picture carried him away, and when Voldemort turned to address him, it took Harry a moment to snap back to reality.

"How about it, Harry? Would you like to see this world? Be a part of its creation? You can do that – all you need is to take my hand. Accept my offer, Harry, and you can spend this summer not slaving away for your relatives, but studying magic in a real home, soaring over a Quidditch Pitch, or even just being with your friends. You can have anything you ever wanted...and more."

Harry had to bite back his tongue, because these pictures of freedom were so vivid in his head. It was some sort of magic – Voldemort had been using it all evening – and it made Harry want to agree with everything the Dark Lord said. But once he'd identified the feeling, he realized how foreign it was, and ground out through his teeth, "You're insane, Tom. Pathologically... _insane."_

Voldemort only smiled. Despite the haunting features of his face, his expression was almost... _kind._ How could he do that, Harry wondered? How could such a vile murderer that _even looked like a member the undead_ be so charismatic?

"It's getting late," Voldemort said, glancing up the moon, which had risen high into the heavens. The glow around him faded away, and his followers fell silent. "You should get back to Hogwarts, Harry. Think about what I've told you. We will see each other again, and by that time I hope you'll have reconsidered."

"You're just…gonna let me go?" Harry, who had never believed in Voldemort's claim, thinking it to be some kind of trick, asked with a stunned expression.

"Have you not been listening, Harry? Every single member of our society is precious. _Magic is precious._ We will not kill anyone. We are a...peaceful cause. So, go. Take the other boy with you."

Voldemort waved one of his hands, and the bonds holding Harry evaporated, letting him fall to the ground with a groan. No one moved to help or harm him; the Death Eaters, like a black wave, merely watched in silence.

"Go, Harry," Voldemort repeated. "Diggory is over there. Hold him, touch the portkey, and you will be return to Dumbledore's embrace in no time at all."

Hardly trusting this turn of events and still muddled by everything that had happened, Harry took one last glance at the gathered crowd and then stumbled away. A soft breeze ruffled his cloak as he grabbed one of Cedric's arms with one hand and touched the Triwizard Cup with another. As soon as he did, the world whirled around him, echoes of black and white, before depositing the pair of students on the Hogwarts grounds, where numerous shocked parents, teachers and students all cried out at the sudden appearance.

 **. . . .**

Voldemort waited patiently till his captives were gone, and then wheeled around to face his followers.

"Parkinson," he intoned into the crisp night air. "Wormtail tells me your daughter is developing a relationship with our recently departed guest."

A portly man stumbled forward and fell on his knees, stuttering, "I...My lord...I did not know...Preoccupied...My financials...I will punish her severely, you have my word…"

"You will do no such thing," Voldemort snapped with annoyance. "On the contrary, you will assist her in her endeavor. You will ensure that she sees the boy over summer and that they will become intimate. I want the bonds between them tight."

"But...My Lord...Pansy, she's just a child…"

"Crucio."

Voldemort said it calmly, without raising his voice or his wand. Parkinson collapsed on the ground, screaming. Voldemort waited a full ten seconds before lifting his spell.

"Are you defying my orders?"

"No," the trembling man croaked out through a fit of coughter, "No...not at all."

"Good. Besides, you've been shopping off your daughter for months now. Having her betrothed to Potter is certainly no worse than thrusting her into the hands of the McLaggens, so I see no reason for indignance. Get up, Parkinson, stop acting like a worm."

Panting heavily, the Death Eater did as he was told and shuffled back into the crowd.

"Good. Now," Voldemort announced, "When I call out your name, you will approach me for your assignment. I expect exemplary results. Anything less will be...punished severely. Alikson!"

A petite woman in luxurious robes strode boldly forward. The others could not hear what orders she was given from beyond the privacy charms, but after several minutes they saw her dip her head low and then exit, disapparating at once.

"Atwood!" Voldemort called the next name.

The man who'd been recently injured by the gunshot, limped up. The scene repeated itself, with Atwood leaving the instant Voldemort had finished explaining his task.

"Bergenstein!"

One by one, the Death Eaters received their orders and disappeared into the night. The moon rolled through the cosmos, uncaring for the affairs of the mortals, and by the time the last of the group had departed, it had crossed its zenith and was bowing low towards the horizon.

Voldemort was alone. He breathed deeply, taking in the aromas of the night. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, and a strange look – almost fatigue – flickered over his features, but then his eyes snapped back open and his gaze became sharp once more.

"Crouch!" he called out into the darkness. "Come forward!"

From off to the side, a rustling sound accompanied the footsteps of two figures that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. The larger of the two – a man – strode forward confidently as he held his wand, forcing a magically bound and gagged girl to stumble after him. The girl, obviously terrified, was nevertheless keeping her wits about her and shooting deadly glares from under a great mound of bushy hair.

Voldemort smiled hungrily. Potter was being stubborn, but otherwise, everything was going exactly to plan.

* * *

 **Thank you for your thoughts :3**


	18. Chapter 18

**I had the best time reading everyone's thoughts on Voldemort. Thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter 18: Daughter Of Flesh**

The past hour had seen a number of arguments rise and fall as cabinet ministers and school officials clashed in the confines of Dumbledore's office. The sides had parted now – and not amicably – leaving only two people in the quirky place that the Headmaster called home.

"They don't believe me," Harry said angrily, pacing the length the room. "They don't even _want_ to believe me."

Albus Dumbledore carefully surveyed his student from behind his desk before responding. "No, Harry. They don't."

"But why?!" Harry raged. "Fudge wouldn't even let me mention Voldemort, he just cut me off, calling me mad!"

His words echoed loudly among the peculiar collections Dumbledore had gathered over the years. There was an old astrolabe and sextant, both broken and tilted to the side; a golden globe that shone from within; and a curious stock of differently sized pipes, among other things. Dumbledore absently fiddled with a lemon stick on his desk as waited for Harry's anger to die down. Then, seizing a pause in the words, he explained, "Cornelius Fudge has been Minister for the past seven years. His administration has been fortunate enough not to face the terrors of the past."

"So, what are you saying?" Harry stopped his pacing and asked, furrowing his brow. "That Fudge doesn't want anything to change? That he'd rather pretend everything is fine instead of believing in the danger?"

"Change can be a terrifying thing," Dumbledore remarked. "Many find it easier to ignore than to confront reality."

Harry sighed. "Sometimes, I wish you'd speak more clearly, Headmaster. If you wanted to call Fudge an ostrich with his head in the sand, then just do so, and I promise I won't tell anyone!"

"That would be your own extrapolation, Harry." Despite the rebuke, Dumbledore's eyes crinkled in amusement. "But regardless of what _Minister_ Fudge is or is not, I fear that convincing him of Lord Voldemort's return is a lost cause. He will not believe you, me, or anyone until it is too late."

"So what do we do then?" Harry fumed. "We can't just sit back and give up!"

"Of course not. But I'm afraid that in the commotion, I wasn't able to perceive the full picture of what transpired tonight. Could you tell me everything, Harry. Start from the beginning."

"Of course, sir," Harry sighed wearily and closed his eyes. "It happened when we touched the cup. I told Cedric to take it, but he insisted that it belonged to both of us. And so, we took it together, except, when we grasped it…"

Harry's story continued for some time, and Dumbledore listened, silent, as the moon's glow slowly traveled over his desk and the light of the stars shone from above. Deep in thought, he remained quiet for some time after Harry had finished talking.

"Tom Riddle has undeniably changed," he finally said, startling Harry out of the stillness.

"So you believe him then?" Harry asked. "About the danger and the new world that he wants to build?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Dumbledore answered. "Tom is correct in his assessment that a confrontation between wizardkind and muggles is coming, but anything said beyond that is self-serving. Do you know, Harry, where the phrase he uses – and he used it in the first war, too – comes from? A 'Brave New World'?"

"Err, no, sir. Not really."

"Pity. I bet your friend, Ms. Granger, would be familiar with it. Where is she, by the way, do you know? I can't seem to recall seeing her during the trial."

"I'm sure she's in the dorms now, Headmaster," Harry replied, suddenly averting his eyes. "Probably waiting up with everybody else."

"I see," Dumbledore quietly said. Something in his tone made Harry glance up sharply, but Dumbledore only met his gaze with a sad smile. "Give it a read, would you, Harry?" he said, holding up a book that seemed to have suddenly materialized between his fingers. Blocky letters on the front cover spelled ' _Brave New World by Aldous Huxley'._ "I think this will give you an insight into what type of world Lord Voldemort is planning following the success of his so-called 'plan'. Trust me, the name is not a coincidence."

Harry glanced at the book with apprehension, but still tucked it into the folds of his robes. "Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore smiled once again and then said, "I imagine you have questions."

"Yes, Headmaster. So, what Voldemort told his followers...about the war between muggles and wizards...it's all true? It will happen?"

"Sadly, I cannot say," Dumbledore replied heavily, and Harry was surprised at how old he suddenly looked. "Muggle advances are far outpacing our own at the moment. There are many ways a confrontation can go, but I believe that, in the end, peace will prevail. There is no reason for our peoples not to coexist in harmony, no matter what Tom Riddle claims."

"I see. It's just that he was...very…" Harry paused, trying to find the right words, "...very convincing. At some moments, I could feel myself _wanting_ to join him, and his followers...well, you should have seen them, sir. They were fanatical, eating up every word."

"Ah. They would, Harry. Tom has always been fascinated by obscure magic. And this particular kind, the one you were witness to, was developed in the Roman period. Famous orators would infuse their speeches with magic, making their words more palatable to the populace. There are reports that some consuls could convince whole crowds that the sky was pink or that they should all empty their pockets...in the consul's favor, of course." Dumbledore looked up with some amusement, but then his gaze saddened. "This art of magical speech has been mostly lost, and Tom commands only the faintest wisps. That's why you were able to fight him off."

"But the others couldn't," Harry pointed out with a frown.

"The others took the Dark Mark. By giving Tom their fealty, his followers granted him immense power over themselves. They are almost like puppets to him, with strings that he can easily pull," Dumbledore explained.

"So they're like...his slaves?" Harry tried to clarify.

"No. They can deny his will, but it takes great conviction to do so. Unfortunately, creating his Death Eaters was only a first step for Tom," Dumbledore added with a sigh. "It has been a long dream of his…"

Confused, Harry asked, "What has? Making his followers more...subservient?"

"In a way, yes," Dumbledore replied. "What I will tell you must remain between us, Harry. You see, I came upon this information through only a very fortuitous turn of events. During the first war, when Voldemort was only beginning his ascent to power, one of the auror raids uncovered a stash of ancient scrolls, written in a language few are able to decipher. The Ministry asked me to translate, but I fear I deceived them. I took the scrolls for myself and I did not return them. I later told the Ministry that they had been destroyed in accident. They were not, of course. I burned them myself, and the action was quite purposeful."

"What did they say?" Harry asked with interest.

Dumbledore took a moment to ponder the question, and when he spoke, his voice was low and heavy. "They were instructions for the most vile kind of ritual. I will not go into the particulars with you, but in broad terms, it offered a method to replace a human soul."

"Replace?" Harry frowned in confusion. "Replace it with what?"

Dumbledore cast a troubled look out the window and then sighed. "Isn't that the question." Sounding weary and old, he took a glance at the clock in the corner of the room and suddenly shook himself. "Would you look at the time, Harry. I fear it's getting late. You should go to bed, as nothing more can be done tonight."

Harry understood the dismissal for what it was and dipped his head, heading towards the door. With one hand on the handle, he paused. "Headmaster, if I may…"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Voldemort claims he doesn't want to kill me. And he could have, tonight. But he didn't."

"I imagine it's because he wants to recruit you," Dumbledore replied, glancing over his half-moon spectacles. "Having you among his ranks would provide a massive boost to his credibility."

"I understand that," Harry said, slightly annoyed. "It's just...he also said I could have a normal summer. That I could go anywhere I pleased without fear of getting attacked."

"And you believe him?"

"I...I don't know. But I don't want to stay with the Dursleys anymore! You must know how terrible they are!"

"I see," Dumbledore nodded with a grave expression. "I fear I can't offer you any good news, Harry. You aunt and uncle's home is the only place in the world where Tom's influence cannot reach you. It is therefore imperative that you remain there over the summer holidays."

"But–"

"You understand that Tom will do almost anything to tempt you to his side? That you might not even be able to perceive his manipulations?"

"I think I'll be able to perceive them just fine, Headmaster!" Harry retorted hotly.

"Be that as it may, Harry," Dumbledore replied, soothingly, "You _must stay put."_

"I just–"

"Goodnight, Harry," Dumbledore cut him off with a pointed look and then gently added, "Summer will pass quickly. You'll be back with your friends in Hogwarts in no time. And I hear you've made a new one."

Despite his anger at Dumbledore's stance on the Dursley issue, Harry couldn't contain his blush. "I–I guess so."

"Ah, to know youth again!" Dumbledore exclaimed with twinkling eyes. "Cherish these moments, Harry. Cherish them...and don't forget to read the book."

"Of course, sir. Goodnight." Harry turned his burning face away and quickly descended down the steps from the Headmaster's office. It was silly, but bringing up Pansy had left him grinning like a fool. He shook himself, clearing his head before setting a brisk pace towards Gryffindor Tower.

There were several thoughts on his mind, but Hermione's name took forefront. Dumbledore's question about her had caught him off guard, and even though Harry hadn't revealed any of her secrets, he was quickly becoming worried. He, too, hadn't seem Hermione during the final trial, which was very unlike the usually prompt witch.

Of course, she was probably fine, holed up with a book or with ( _ugh_ ) Malfoy, waiting for Harry's return. They would need to act hastily, however, because Lucius Malfoy was at the gathering tonight, and he could easily spill the beans on his ward. Hermione needed to be prepared. Odds were, she'd see Voldemort...very soon.

His steps echoing through long, empty corridors, Harry could not have imagined just how soon such a meeting would actually take place.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **70 miles away.**

It was only after the last of the Death Eaters had departed that Lord Voldemort motioned for them to approach. The spell concealing their presence fell apart, and the man who'd been masquerading as Mad-Eye Moody all year long prodded her forward. Hermione recognized his recently transformed features from one of the genealogical albums Narcissa had made her memorize over the summer – it was Barty Crouch Jr.

Barty moved them swiftly along and then shoved her down to her knees before Lord Voldemort. Hermione stared up defiantly, her occlumency shields snapping into place. From the outside, she appeared perfectly composed, with only a slight hitch in her breathing betraying any sign of anxiety. But the truth was, she was terrified.

Voldemort ignored her.

"You have done well," he spoke after several moments, when Crouch had kneeled down next to Hermione and bowed his head.

"It is an honor to serve you, my lord," the Death Eater whispered back.

"And the auror? Mad-Eye?"

"Per your orders, he is dead. His body will never be found."

"Excellent," Voldemort grinned. "I wish I had more like you, Bartimeus. You have succeeded in every aspect of your assignment: being my spy in Hogwarts, ensuring Harry Potter's victory in the tournament, even bringing Ms. Granger." Upon hearing her name, Hermione's eyes widened just a fraction of an inch. Of all people, Voldemort had to know her real name. By then why had he..? Quickly shoving the confusion away for later, she focused her attention on the scene unfolding in front of her, where Lord Voldemort was continuing to praise his follower.

"Even in the most difficult tasks," the Dark Lord's lauding tone sung through the graveyard, "you have performed admirably. You, above everyone else, deserve to see the new world that will come."

A choking sound, like he was holding back tears, made its way from Crouch's throat. Hermione was stunned. The young Death Eater, filled with barely repressed emotion, was staring up at his leader with such devotion that it actually made her uncomfortable to be intruding on such a private moment. In the light of the silver moon, the pair looked like father and son, reunited at last.

"Thank–thank you, my lord," Crouch choked out and raised his head to meet Voldemort's caress. "Anything for you."

"Anything," Voldemort echoed, gently running his fingers through Crouch's hair, who looked like a child in his parent's arms – peaceful and happy. Even the night seemed to echo these sentiments: the moon was peeking shyly overhead, and the wind had died down, as if unwilling to disturb them.

"I am so pleased with you, Bartimeus," Voldemort whispered, slowly taking out his wand. "And so you will be the first of my chosen to step into the promised land. I want you to picture it right now, in your mind, a world where magic will not be hidden, but revered. Where we will be free and prosperous. Do you see it? Do you feel the glory?"

"I do!" Crouch exclaimed, his eyes closed as his face shined with rapture. "I see it, as real as it will be!"

"It will be beautiful," promised Voldemort solemnly, continuing to hold Crouch with one hand. Hermione watched his other rise in mute astonishment. "It will be... _Avada Kedavra."_

Barty Crouch Jr. died without opening his eyes. His lips parted, a small breath of air escaping into the wind, and then he crumpled to the ground, like a marionette with cut strings. The expression of pure bliss never left his face, leaving a mask of happiness that was grotesque in its stillness.

"You killed him," Hermione whispered, feeling the magical ties that had bound her unravel suddenly. "He...he _loved_ you. He was completely loyal. And you killed him." It wasn't so much the death that had shocked her, but the casual cruelty with which it had been delivered.

"I did," Voldemort agreed, watching Hermione stumble to her feet. Crouch's body lay on the ground in front of him, but he never spared it a second glance. "And now you will tell me why."

" _Why?"_ Hermione gasped. It seemed like her mind was waking up and just beginning to process the murder that had occured right in front of her.

"Yes, Ms. Selwyn," Voldemort snapped impatiently. " _Why?_ Or are you incapable of answering a simple question? Was Crouch misinformed when he claimed you were an exceptionally bright witch? Should I resurrect and then kill him again as punishment for his deception?"

"I–I don't know!" Hermione wailed.

"That is not good enough. I will ask you one more time: _why did I kill him? Think!"_

 _Because you're an insane homicidal megalomaniac intent on genocide,_ Hermione wanted to scream, but checked her tongue at the last second. Antagonizing Lord Voldemort seemed like a poor idea. So, instead, she took a large breath and, trying hard not to stare at Crouch's motionless corpse, began to organize her thoughts.

At face value, Voldemort's actions had seem cruel and pointless. And yet, such a conclusion clashed with everything Hermione had witnessed over the course of the night. Voldemort's movements, words – they had all been obviously planned out in advance. The man had left nothing up to chance. It was doubtful, therefore, that he would suddenly turn around and dispose of a valuable asset simply on a whim. So, there had to be reason.

Voldemort waited, patiently, fiddling with his wand, and Hermione suddenly felt a powerful urge to prove herself. She wasn't some vapid tart who only cared about looks! She was smart and she had all the pieces of the puzzle! It was merely a question of putting them together.

Killing Crouch had been a statement. But to whom? There were only two people in the graveyard now: her and Voldemort, which meant...

Hermione gasped. Voldemort, when he saw the spark of recognition in her eyes, smiled, and it wasn't a cruel smile, but nor was it particularly joyful. It was the smile of a conqueror.

"It was because of me," Hermione whispered. "He had to die...because of me."

It made perfect sense now. Crouch had kidnapped her and then brought her here, but due to Voldemort's magic no one had seen that. Which meant that the only people who knew that Voldemort had planned to meet her tonight were her, Lord Voldemort himself, and Barty Crouch.

Who was now dead.

"But why?" Hermione asked breathlessly. "Why am I so important to you that you would kill your own follower just to keep our meeting a secret?! Why would you hide me with the Grangers, protect my identity all these years and then bring me here? What am I to you?! I can read minds, my affinity for dark magic is leagues beyond my peers...is it all genetic?! Is that why my mum left Dumbledore's Order?! For you?! Are you my father?! Answer me, dammit!"

The last words came out as a scream, a furious darkness swirling in her eyes. Suddenly, she didn't care that it was Lord Voldemort in front of her, that he could probably snap her like a twig between his fingers...she wanted... _needed_...answers, and her demand transformed into pure energy. Rising from the depths of her soul, it crested and crashed over the graveyard. Wind roared, stones splintered, trees were torn from the ground. The elements raged over the land, and only in the center of the storm, around her and Lord Voldemort, reigned an island of stillness, where neither hair nor leaf moved.

The Dark Lord waited patiently for the outburst to pass. His shields never flickered, and eventually the storm broke upon them. The wind waned, weakening slowly as its energy sapped away, and soon disappeared altogether. A hushed silence fell upon the land, which was littered with broken vegetation and the remains of crumbled gravestones.

Hermione collapsed to the ground. Even as a child, she had never lost control of her magic that much, and the outburst had left her completely drained. She sniffled suddenly, feeling lonely. Voldemort slowly lowered himself down next to her.

"I am not your father," he broke the silence after Hermione had calmed down, her hands absently smoothing the folds of her skirt beneath her robes.

"Did you know him?" she asked quietly.

"There is nothing worse than a wizard who wastes his potential," Lord Voldemort told her, with an oddly hypnotic, soothing rhythm that Hermione didn't appear to notice. "Your father was a nobody. He had great magical strength and yet he did nothing with it. It baffled me. How could someone with such...possibility...simply waste it? But I corrected that error. I used what he had. And when I was finished, I killed him."

Hermione yawned. A distant part of her mind marveled at the incongruity of her own actions; surely, she should react with some horror at such a revelation? But the magical outburst had left her tired...so tired. And Lord Voldemort wasn't threatening at all, it seemed. Would a true Dark Lord sit next to her on the ground and tell her stories? Her head slowly leaned on his shoulder, eyelids drooping.

"So you see, Ms. Selwyn," Voldemort continued idly, running his fingers through her hair, "I am not your father. I am much, _much_ more than that."

"Much more than what?" Hermione asked sleepily, failing to up any resistance when Voldemort slipped into her mind. She felt his consciousness sweep through her memories, inspecting every moment as if he was searching for something. Deeper and deeper he went, falling into a past even she couldn't remember. There were odd images and sounds: her mother's voice, singing a lullaby; a small cradle, the blue ponies on its sides shimmering in the sunlight; someone banging on the door, yelling angrily...thousands of events, many of her earliest childhood, flew past her eyes, but Voldemort ignored them all. His target was further back, it seemed, at a time when she hadn't even formed, but was just a bundle of cells in her mother's belly. Something had happened to her then…

"Finally…" Voldemort hissed at last, when he reached his goal. Hermione shivered suddenly, an arctic frostiness sweeping her bones. The chill rose from within, supernatural, ancient, born at a time when early humans had gathered around fires, warding off the night's terrors with stories of gods that lived in the stars.

"Yes, Ms. Selwyn," Voldemort whispered with a cruel delight, when the darkness answered his call, "I am the one who–" he leaned in close, his lips at her ear "–Made. You. What. You. Are." And with those final words, time seemed to slow down for Hermione, coming to a full standstill, until it started it moving again, faster and faster, fleeing in the opposite direction. Light and shadow flashed before her eyes, clashing with explosive force. Pictures jumbled together, sounds roared, and overwhelmed by the stimuli, Hermione screamed piercingly. The pain was unbearable, breaking her mind and consciousness, reforging her very essence in order to find room for something new that had come to claim its domain.

 _Be still, daughter of flesh,_ were the last words Hermione heard before she tumbled into darkness.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The woman was old, and the shack she lived in had seen better days. Cobwebs hung in the corners, a bitter wind whistled through the holes in the roof that had been patched many times, but never well enough. The shack smelled of herbs. There was rosemary and thyme, devil's blight, mandragora, edelweiss, sage...in short, a number of aromas familiar to any hedge-witch. Adriana, entering through the creaking door that only opened half-way, crinkled her nose and then sneezed several times before before leaning against the wooden frame with a labored breath. Streaks of sweat dotted her brow, and her hands seemed to stray to her belly, where a distinct bulge pronounced the final weeks of pregnancy. She held it dearly, clutching her most precious possession with fervor, as her eyes closed and her lips whispered several lines of prayer. When she was done, she opened her eyes and called out into the room.

"I seek your guidance, Yaga."

The old woman didn't respond.

Adriana stumbled forward, her hand dipping into her robes to withdraw a strange, bone-like object. "A debt is owed to my family," she proclaimed. "I am the last of the line, and I have come to collect."

"A debt is owed," the old woman called Yaga responded, accepting the offering, "and a debt shall be paid." When she glanced up, Adriana saw that her eyes were beastly, curved, and glowed like topazes in the dark. "What do you want, child of flesh?"

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Adriana collapsed into a rickety chair. For a few seconds, her features held their composure, but then they twisted together and she sobbed, "I...I made a mistake. I approached a man who promised me vengeance, and in return he only asked for one thing. At the time, I was foolish enough to believe I could pay his price. But…" Adriana trailed off, her fingers curling once again over her distended stomach, "I can't. And I can't break the agreement. Help me. Help me, please."

"This price he requested," Yaga said slowly, "would it have something to do with the child growing inside of you?"

"He...he did something," Adriana whispered, wiping away the moisture in her eyes. "He told me to lay with a certain man, take his seed, and then...he did something, but I don't know what. I only feel that my baby is... _wrong_ now. That something is hurting her. Can you change that? Can you fix her?"

"Did he kill the father?" Yaga asked.

"Yes," Adriana admitted. "He said death was necessary for the ritual."

"Only life can pay for life." Yaga nodded, closing her eyes, and then began to explain: "The man you bargained with knows the ancient ways. He has safeguarded his body by breaking his soul, and now a piece of that soul resides in your daughter's body. In time, it will consume her, and when he comes for her, she will not be able to resist. She will be his, fully."

"Can you stop that from happening?" Adriana gasped. "Can you remove this...soul fragment?"

Yaga shook her head. "The bargain is set. The price has been paid. The fragment cannot be removed without killing your daughter."

"Something to help her resist him, then," Adriana pleaded. "So that she can fight. Give her a chance, please!"

"A chance is possible," Yaga's voice reverberated through the room. "But it will come at a cost."

"Anything!" Adriana exclaimed. "I will give anything!"

"Only life can pay for life."

Adriana froze, eyes wide, lips trembling. "If that is the fee, then so be it," she whispered after a moment. "I accept."

"Are you certain?" The Yaga's eyes glimmered in the dark.

"Yes."

"Then we will strike a bargain. Drink." A cup of steaming liquid suddenly appeared in front of the young witch and she eyed it hesitantly. "Drink," Yaga repeated forcefully, "it is the first step."

Adriana closed her eyes and lifted the cup to her lips. When the contents poured down her throat, she grimaced in pain, but continued to drink until the cup was empty. When she put it down, her eyes had glazed over.

"You will not remember any of this," Yaga declared, summoning a second cup. "And the end will come when you least expect it."

"But my daughter," Adriana asked shakily, "she will have a chance? She will be able to fight?"

"A chance, yes. Of that, you have my word," Yaga answered. "But you will never know what she makes of it."

Adriana sniffled, running her palms against her eyes that had turned moist again. "I'm sorry, my darling," she whispered. "I am so terribly sorry…"

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 _Be still, daughter of flesh!_

Hermione blinked groggily, the strange words echoing in the depths of her mind. Slowly, the world tumbled back into focus: the silver moon; the graveyard, doused in shadow; and Lord Voldemort, staring down with a triumphant expression in his blood-red eyes.

 _He thinks he has won,_ urgently, the voice continued to whisper. _That we are his. You must convince him of this and then leave at once, for he is too strong for me to keep up this deception for long! Do as he says!_

"My little Selwyn secret," Voldemort murmured, leaning down to cup Hermione's face with his hands. "Are you ready to do as you are told?"

Against her own will, Hermione smiled shakily. "Of course, my lord," she answered, hauling herself up to her feet. "Anything for you."

"Excellent." Voldemort patted her cheek and then backed off, smirking. "You will have several objectives over the following months. First, you will find and eliminate the person who has been hunting you. Lucius has made some progress in that area recently; have him provide you the details. Second, you will use Sirius Black to ascertain the location of Azkaban. My followers languish in its depths; it is time to set them free. Lastly, you will ensure that this summer will be the best one Harry Potter has ever had. Use the Parkinson chit to achieve this goal. Is everything clear?"

"Crystal, my lord," Hermione curtsied, and then glanced up at the moon. "It is late. My dorm-mates have no doubt noticed my absence by now. I should go."

"Take this," Voldemort said, handing her a rubbish-looking quill. "A two-directional portkey. It is primed for Hogsmeade now, but it will take you to a location near my presence in the future. I expect weekly updates."

Hermione barely suppressed a tremor when her fingers touched Voldemort's. Thankfully, the Dark Lord didn't seem to notice.

"Goodnight, my lord," Hermione whispered, bowing low as the quill started to vibrate in her hands. Her collected composure hadn't broken once.

It was only after appearing in Hogsmeade that Hermione collapsed to her knees and began to sob.

 _It's alright,_ the mysterious voice in her head whispered. _You did well, darling. But you will have to keep up this charade. You will have to obey all his orders, no matter how terrible or cruel. And as you deceive him, we will grow strong, you and I. And then, when he least expects it, we will take what is ours. Hush, darling. Hush…_

Hermione cried, and the wind wept with her. The night was terribly dark here, the moon hidden below heavy clouds that had returned with the storm. It was cold, and the only warmth in the world seemed to originate from the strange voice that kept on whispering soothing words, trying to calm her down. Eventually, it succeeded, and Hermione stumbled to her feet. Hogwarts was far away, just a dream in the distance.

It would be a long trek ahead.

 **End of Part II.**


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